Four
by animatedbrowneyes
Summary: As the six remaining Lorien teenagers hide across the globe, Number Four arrives in Lima, on the run, and finds something she's never experienced before with one Quinn Fabray; love. AU.
1. Arrival

**Yeah, I went there. How could I not?**

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**If anyone decides to read, hope you like it! I'm about halfway through the book, which the plot will follow with my own little spin. **

**This is season one of _Glee, _by the way. Enjoy!**

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* * *

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"Time to leave!" Leroy shouted. The motionless brunette, still standing in their now emptied house, sighed deeply.

"I heard you the first time," the girl grumbled sullenly to herself, slinging her bag over her shoulder. She cast one last, mournful look at her bedroom—it was one of the nicest she had ever lived in, so far—and shut the door behind her, silently cursing the order of the many universes, which more than likely despised her for no reason.

She walked quickly across the front yard and clambered into the Jeep.

"Took you long enough," Leroy muttered, revving the engine and stepping firmly on the gas pedal.

"You're too impatient," the girl snapped back, glaring out of the window. "I'm sure five extra minutes wouldn't be detrimental to your precious schedule."

"You know why we have to leave," Leroy barked. "You're acting like a child. Timing is everything."

The girl simply huffed. Leroy's eyes softened guiltily, and he cast a regretful glance to his protégée.

"Why don't you pick your new alias?" He suggested, hoping to lighten her mood.

"I already have."

The Jeep found a path to the highway, easily slipping into the flow of light traffic.

"What is it?"

"Rachel Berry. I picked a name from that nonsense sitcom you like, along with a type of fruit. It's an unconventional and unique pseudonym if I do say so myself."

Leroy chuckled as 'Rachel' tried not to laugh too much at her own joke.

"Well, I can't argue that it's not creative. You've outdone yourself."

Rachel smiled a little. "Where are we off to next?"

Leroy kept a careful eye on the road as he dug out the atlas they always used to find a new location. Rachel liked it. It was a piece of their little life—a life of constantly moving from one place to another, staying under the radar around the States—that never changed. Rachel didn't get to keep pictures or videos of their past, with Leroy's fear of detection (he was extremely paranoid). Instead, they just had this same atlas to plot a new place to live when necessary. It wasn't enough, but it was all right.

Leroy pointed vaguely to a state in the Midwest. "Ohio."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "The town I picked, Lima, it's very small. Not very noticeable. Out of the way, not a big city...you know the drill."

"I'll be sure to tip a cow over while we're there," Rachel said gloomily. "That might be my only form of entertainment."

Leroy laughed. "Try to cheer up. Maybe you'll make a few new friends."

"Yup. I'll tell my new friends all about my secret life as an alien named Four who escaped my home planet, Lorien, and that I'm here to quietly assimilate into human society at the same time I'm avoiding being murdered like my counterparts by vicious, power-hungry savages," Rachel quipped dryly, and Leroy scowled.

"Must you ruin the moment?"

"Yes! I don't want to keep moving around all the time, Leroy! I want to settle in one place for awhile and make real friends and have a life!" Rachel exclaimed in frustration.

"We've had this discussion," Leroy growled. "I'm sure you haven't forgotten that your fellow 'aliens' have died. Three of them in less than ten years. And you're next."

"I think you're being a bit dramatic," Rachel mumbled petulantly.

"I'm being realistic," Leroy insisted. "I'm protecting you. Why can't you understand that?"

"I just want a life."

"I think you're adapting to being human too closely."

"Wasn't I supposed to do that?" Rachel countered triumphantly.

Leroy sighed, defeated—(unfortunately, stubbornness was their shared trait, and he had to pick his battles)—and said nothing, turning his gaze to the highway.

Rachel lapsed into silent melancholy and continued to curse the order of the universe with every swear she knew, both human and Loric, which was quite an amount.

* * *

"Hello, my name is Deborah Puckerman," the real estate woman greeted them warmly, shaking hands with Leroy as they began to speak logistics, discussing the house's foundations, furnishing, and price. Rachel set her jaw and eyed the living room instead, which was decorated modestly, void of any dust or peeling paint. The walls were covered in a blueish wallpaper, similar to a cloudless sky on a summer's day. Rachel spied two large bedrooms from the bottom of the stairs, and a bathroom between them.

"Rachel, honey?"

Rachel rolled her eyes and turned to find Mrs. Puckerman smiling at her while Leroy's gaze bored into her head, warning her to be courteous.

"What grade are you in, dear?"

"Junior," she answered brightly, mockingly—only Leroy noticed her insincerity—"I'm seventeen."

Leroy frown deepened as Mrs. Puckerman smiled wider, oblivious.

"I know a few teenagers in your grade, including my son—maybe you'll meet them tomorrow, hmm?"

Rachel nodded and excused herself as faux-politely as she could, hurrying up the stairs to claim a room before Leroy could glower at her again for her insolence. She picked the smaller bedroom, feeling slightly apologetic to her protector; he was right, again. He always was. He was only trying to keep her safe all this time, and she was just endangering herself if they decided to stay in one place for too long and anything unusual could occur. Or worse, something unusual could arrive...

Mogadorians. They hunted Lorics hidden on Earth with savage ferocity, vying to destroy their race altogether. Rachel shivered.

If you met a Mogadorian, chances are you wouldn't live to tell the tale.

Three of her fellow Loric teenagers were dead. Number One was killed in Malaysia. Number Two was murdered in England. Number Three was hunted down in Kenya. Rachel was next in line of the remaining six hidden in plain sight, the succeeding teenager under the charm. At any moment, day or night, she could be assassinated, further lessening the chance of repopulation and revival of Lorien, the planet they'd be forced to flee. She and her counterparts were the last hope of continuing their race.

Pressure, pressure, _pressure_.

Rachel pressed her cheek to the cooled window, watching sadly as the sun set lower in the distance.

Why couldn't she just be a normal human being? Was that too much to ask?

* * *

"All set?"

"Yes, _Daddy_," Rachel stressed the next morning, annoyed. "Do I seriously have to call you that again?"

"Would you prefer 'Father' or 'Dad', Rachel?" Leroy inquired patiently, his smile unwaveringly calm. "It's your choice."

"My choice would be to smack you upside the head," the brunette sighed. "But I won't...Dad."

"You know, you remind me of those...tempermental actresses in television or films. What are they called...divas. Yes, that's the one. You're acting very similar to a diva."

"I am not!" Rachel screeched indignantly, only amusing Leroy further.

"My point is made. Anyway, let's go over the basics. What's in your backpack?"

"Five day's worth of dried fruit and nuts, which can double as a lunch. Spare socks and thermal underwear. Rain jacket, handheld GPS, and a knife disguised as a pen."

"On you at all times. Keep an eye out for the signs, Rachel. Your Legacies are going to appear any day now. Hide them at all costs and call me immediately."

"I know, Leroy," Rachel sighed wearily.

Legacies were powers only Lorics could gain, differing between each teenager except for the shared ability of telekinesis, which Rachel had yet to possess, much to her disappointment and Leroy's relief. Unfortunately, when Legacies did arrive—usually as each teenager matured—they were painful, obvious, and often explosive.

She would have to be very careful and stay on her toes.

"Any day," Leroy repeated, his fingers drumming anxiously on the steering wheel. "If your fingers disappear from view, or if you start to float, or shake violently, if you lose muscular control or begin to hear voices even when no one is talking to you. Anything, don't hesitate, just call me straight away and I'll come and get you."

"I have my phone with me," Rachel reminded him. Leroy smiled encouragingly, his seriousness momentarily dissipating.

"Good luck, sweetie. You'll do great."

Rachel offered a small smile in return. Leroy was the closest person in her life. He kept watch over her, stressed over new locations and identifications, found shelter and jobs, and she would never be thankful enough for his care. He was nearing fifty years old now, having spent ten years on Earth since their arrival. He remembered the transition clearer than her—she was about five when Lorien became uninhabitable because of the terrifying Mogadorian siege.

She adapted quickly, unlike him. Too quickly. He still had the mentality to preserve old Lorien traditions. She adopted human desires, human indulgences, a human _mind_.

"Go on," Leroy ordered, stirring her from her reverie. He nudged her side, his voice turning teasing. "Get to class, _darling_."

"Thank you, Father," she replied playfully. "I'll knock 'em dead, as these witty humans say!"

She darted from the Jeep like a cheetah before he could reply with anything more than an exasperated chuckle.

* * *

Rachel walked through the parking lot toward her new school—William McKinley High (Rachel remembered studying the president, a failure in his tenancy, she recalled)—and heard curious whispers about her and stares following her movements. She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She always got attention as the new student. It was tiring after such a long time. Rachel had lost count after twenty schools. Too much effort to keep track. She took a deep breath for luck and entered the building.

"I know a fellow Jew when I see one," a handsome, mohawked boy drawled, materializing at her side, standing tall and muscular to her petite height. "It's all in the nose."

"I'm sorry?" Rachel questioned, confused as she touched her nose self-consciously.

Jew? Oh, Judaism. Right. A religion found on Earth. _Keep up_, Rachel internally chastised herself. _Stop acting so alien, E.T._

The boy only snickered. "I'm Noah Puckerman, but you can call me Puck, or Puckasaurus. All the ladies around here do."

Rachel raised an eyebrow, regarding him skeptically. "Well, Noah, it's been invigorating listening to your ego-inflamed introduction but I have to go register for my classes."

"I'll walk you," Puck offered tauntingly, his expression shining with mischief. Deborah Puckerman clearly had not passed her manners onto her child.

"If you must, seeing that I just can't get rid of you," Rachel sighed, exasperated.

Puck leered confidently at her and led the way past groups of endless students crowding the hallway, muttering about her and something about Puck 'nailing the new girl already'. Rachel clamped her teeth together and held her head up high, ignoring the whispers and slight laughter brewing her her wake, and caught up to Puck, who leaned casually against the doorframe of the main office.

"Anytime you did a guide, ride, or friend," he winked, proud of his little rhyme, "you can ring me. I'm always available."

"Fantastic, thank you," Rachel answered impatiently, gesturing to the office. "Would you mind moving?"

Unfazed by her abrupt dismissal, Puck laughed and ambled down the hallway, disappearing into a sea of football players. Loud bellows of male laughter echoed off the walls as Rachel stormed into the office, mumbling curses under her breath. If Puck was any indication of the boys in McKinley to come, she was doomed.

* * *

Rachel found her first class—AP American Lit—without difficulty, and showed her slip to the teacher, who signed it and gestured for her to pick a desk. She sat down in the second row, fishing out a notebook, school supplies fixed purposely on top of her alien essentials, and uncapped a regular pen, doodling absently.

Students filed in slowly, yawning due to all nighters and chatting loudly.

"Who is she?" A girl snarked, the tone invading Rachel's highly sensitive hearing.

"Puck says he saw her earlier," another girl murmured softly.

"Ah. That must be the 'smoking hot Jew' he was so excited about."

Rachel's mouth tightened into a frown as she withdrew her pen from her paper, having stabbed a hole clean through it and into the tabletop. She eyed the hole speculatively, seeing no danger of discovery. Loriens contained immense strength, multiple times greater than humans. She would have to be more careful. Her appearances always did stir curiosity and suspicion (that was less often) and she had yet to completely understand the fact that all humans were not friendly.

Deborah Puckerman could be just an anomaly. Not everyone in Lima would be pleasant. Males were abrasive, disgusting, and immature, varying with age. Females of Earth seemed to grow steadily nastier with age, hiding their thoughts and disdain behind fake, simpering smiles and promises of secrecy, only to result in such secrets spreading like wildfire. Rachel learned swiftly not to trust anyone, especially with the common cliche of cheerleaders. Cheerleaders were usually the one who provoked her the most.

"Psstt."

"_Psstt!_"

"New girl!" The first girl hissed.

Rachel sighed, and lifted her gaze, finding a blonde and a brunette sitting in front of her, turned around in their chairs. The blonde was smiling; the brunette was scowling.

"Can I help you?"

"I'm Brittany," the blonde beamed. "And this is Santana. What's your name?"

"Rachel," the fourth Loric teenager replied, nearly offering her previous identity from Florida—Jane Richmond— "Rachel Berry."

"Rachel Berry," Brittany mused, her eyes twinkling with delight. "It sounds like a tropical fruit. Fruit tastes good, doesn't it, San?"

Santana laughed provocatively; Rachel blushed.

"I like you," Brittany announced. "Santana, she's our friend now. No insults, even if she dresses like my grandma. Are you a grandma?" She asked of Rachel.

"No," Rachel answered politely, sensing Santana's warning glare, silently daring her to reply rudely to the sweet blonde. "I don't have any children or grandchildren."

"If I may interrupt what is probably an enlightening conversation," the teacher snapped unexpectedly, "would you three mind paying attention to the lesson?"

When the trio had quieted and the teacher resumed his monologue about persuasive arguments, Rachel distinctly heard Santana mumble "shithead" under her breath.

_Indeed,_ Rachel thought.

* * *

Rachel's day at McKinley progressed smoothly and decently, until just before lunch, when she was closing her locker. A hand tapped her shoulder.

When she'd turned to greet her newest questioner, she was met instead with a mouthful of frozen, flavored ice, tasting like manufactured grape substitute.

"Slushie for the new girl," a burly football player sneered, tossing the cup at Rachel's feet as the hallway erupted in spiteful laughter. Rachel wiped the purple sludge from her watering eyes, too shaken and surprised to speak, but was just in time to see the boy emit a howl of pain as he sank to his knees, hands feebly covering his groin.

Standing pointedly in front of Rachel, face turned from her view, was a blonde girl, slightly taller than her and had her hands on her hips.

"Karofsky," the blonde snarled, "what the hell?"

"She's a new loser," Karofsky growled, wincing. "I was sending a message of how we do it in McKinley. What are you gonna do about it, Fabray?"

"Kick you again?" The blonde offered scornfully, aiming her sneaker into his abdomen, earning a strained yelp from Karofsky.

"You're nothing without the Cheerios and Hudson," Karofsky cursed, clambering awkwardly to his feet and shaking himself off. "I'll get you tomorrow."

"If you can walk tomorrow," was the sardonic retort from Rachel's defender. Karofsky muttered obscenities as he pushed through the dispersing crowd, and whispers followed in his wake. Students shuffled past, cowering from what Rachel presumed to be the blonde's angry expression, and finally, the girl turned around to face her.

Rachel was sure she'd never seen a human so lovely. She'd walked through dozens of schools, watched endless television and films, and seen photographs, but no one seemed to match the teenager in front of her. The blonde was stunningly beautiful—skin tone rivaling ivory, eyes with a pleasing, tawny shade, and a winning smile to boot.

"Hi," the girl grinned charmingly. "I'm Quinn. Sorry about that guy. He's an oaf."

"That's okay," Rachel stammered, feeling her face burn slightly—twice in one day, how unusual— "T-thank you."

"Let's get you cleaned up," Quinn suggested, grabbing Rachel's hand. "I have some gym clothes you can borrow in my locker for the rest of the afternoon."

Without further ado, Quinn tugged an unresisting Rachel along, stopping first at her locker and then guiding the slushied brunette into the nearest bathroom.

* * *

"So," Quinn declared brightly, wiping off some of the slushie on Rachel's ear, "I heard through the gossipy grapevine known as Brittany that your name sounds oddly fruity."

"Um, yes," Rachel smiled, nervous. "I'm Rachel Berry. I'm a new student here. My d-dad and I just moved here from...Florida."

"Where's your mom?" Quinn questioned curiously. Rachel blanched instinctively and the blonde's smile dropped. "Oh, sorry. I didn't mean—"

"It's fine," Rachel interrupted kindly. "She died a long time ago."

_Yeah, she was murdered by a barbaric race of aliens, but that's not really acceptable small talk, is it?_

"Still, I'm sorry. You must miss her, huh?"

"Yes. I was very young when it happened," Rachel admitted. "It was...very sudden. My father was devastated."

Quinn hummed sympathetically into subsequent silence and soon after, finished cleaning Rachel's hair, now void of slushie. Handing her the spare set of gym clothes, Quinn hopped up to sit on the sink when Rachel stepped into a stall. Changing quickly, Rachel emerged in a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt that was several sizes too big.

"Good," Quinn smiled. "At least you aren't walking around with a complementary slushie facial all day. That's the worst."

"Thank you for your help," Rachel replied shyly.

Quinn shrugged, almost self-depracatingly. "No problem. What are friends for?"

Rachel couldn't help but beam enthusiastically—Leroy was right, she _was_ making friends— and Quinn laughed in response, jumping off her perch and striding to the door.

"Shall we?" Quinn queried, waving her hand in a dramatic sweep, as if to escort Rachel around like a queen. "Lunch isn't over yet."

"Okay," Rachel agreed happily, and Quinn pulled the door open, allowing Rachel to step by first before following the girl outside into the hallway.

"You can sit with my friends and I," Quinn surmised, leading the way to the cafeteria. "They won't mind."

"Thanks, Quinn."

Before the brunette could open the doors, Quinn's hand on her wrist stilled any movement, and Rachel turned around to face her, curious at the holdup. Quinn held up an elastic band and carefully pulled a silent Rachel's hair into a ponytail, pushing stray tresses behind the shorter girl's ears, and leaning back to admire her handiwork.

"Better," Quinn decided proudly, flashing a wide grin. Rachel felt her skin flame up again and managed a dazed smile before the pair went into the lunchroom.

_Quinn Fabray_, Rachel thought, mystified. _A human I want to learn about. That's a first._

* * *

"Can you sing?"

Rachel blinked, suddenly aware of many pairs of eyes on her, all sitting around her at the table. She cleared her throat. "Pardon?"

The boy who offered the inquiry—Artie, bespectacled and in a wheelchair—smiled politely before repeating himself. "Can you sing?"

"Oh. I sing occasionally, yes. My father thinks I'm quite good—"

"Yeah, yeah," Santana interjected, scowling. "No need for an hour-long speech. Try out for glee club, would you?"

"Glee club?" Rachel reiterated curiously, tilting her head to the side. "What's that?"

"A show choir," a girl dressed in gothlike attire—Tina—answered quietly. "We need a twelfth member to compete with other schools in Ohio."

"It's really fun," Quinn added, sending another blush-inducing smile in Rachel's direction. "Mr. Schuester's trying to revive what everyone thinks is a lost cause."

"Why is it a lost cause?" Rachel asked, automatically thinking of her own Loric dilemma. "With plenty of effort, you can fix anything."

The assembled group—Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Tina, Artie, Mercedes, and Kurt, the last four she'd met only a few minutes ago—exchanged approving looks.

"We need an attitude like that," Artie nodded. "The club's not really focused lately. We're getting complacent without the required amount of people for Sectionals."

"And you think I can help you?"

"You've got the drive," Mercedes mused. "And you can sing, or so you say."

"We're all in it," Quinn continued. "It's the best part of the day, and we need a strong female lead to match the male lead."

"Who's the male lead?" Rachel questioned. Quinn's smile seemed to lessen in brightness, and Mercedes sighed.

"That kid over there," the diva replied, jerking her thumb towards the football players's table. Snickering with a few other boys, an obviously tall guy was high-fiving Noah Puckerman, both laughing loudly amongst the team sitting with them. The boy was relatively average looking, with a silly beam and happy eyes that resembled a child's.

"Finn Hudson," Kurt explained with an almost dreamy look. "Quinn's ex-boyfriend, the quarterback and the male lead of our glee club."

"Rein it in, Cinderella," Santana snapped. "Try not to pant over Finnessa like a dog chasing a bone. Honestly, Hummel, it's pathetic."

"I'm not pathetic," Kurt grouched moodily. "Can't I appreciate what I see?"

"I find it funny," Quinn murmured, humor returning to her eyes. "Finn's biggest fan isn't me like he wants it to be, it's Kurt."

"How is he the lead?" Rachel wondered hesitantly. "If he's on the football team, which doesn't look like the friendliest bunch, what made him join your club?"

"He's trying to get Quinn back," Brittany declared, earning glances from the other occupants of the table. "He wants to impress her by doing both."

"Basically," Mercedes agreed, "Finn's being a golden boy to try and make Quinn his girlfriend again."

"S'not working," Quinn grumbled. "I'm done with that idiot."

Santana chuckled. Tina tried to hide a smile while Artie couldn't stop his if he wanted to. Before Rachel could react to any more news, the bell rang shrilly.

With a few more pleads, Rachel did decide to consider auditioning for glee club, much to the group's relief.

* * *

"Where are you off to, Rachel?" Quinn asked, when they'd left the cafeteria and returned to the brunette's locker, retrieving the discarded books.

"Spanish III...with Mr. Schuester," Rachel answered vaguely, tucking her schedule into a binder.

"I'll walk you there—I have him for second period in the mornings."

The blonde led her to the other side of the school, and went inside the classroom first, where an early-thirties, easy going teacher was already talking to Quinn when Rachel entered. The man nodded, and smiled kindly at his newest student, who turned slightly red under the scrutiny. Quinn squeezed her hand once before departing, and the class already assembled watched Rachel curiously, like she was a particularly interesting television special. Mr. Schuester turned to face the class, clapping for their attention.

"_Buenos dias, clase."_

_"Buenos dias, señor Schuester," _the class replied dutifully, as per routine in every Spanish class.

"We have a new student with us. Her name is Rachel Berry, please make her feel welcome," Mr. Schue added, looking pointedly at Suzy Pepper and Lauren Zizes.

"Sit down, Boy Hips," Lauren jeered. Stifled snickers drifted from every side, and Rachel sat down, rolling her eyes at human immaturity.

Her class passed slowly and painfully, as she listened to the other students butcher the language and feeling erasers pelted at her back. When the bell rang, she sighed.

"First day's always the hardest," Mr. Schuester offered sympathetically. "Anyway, I heard from Quinn that you might be considering joining the club."

"The lost cause," Rachel amended, and the teacher laughed.

"Exactly. How about you give it a try? Wouldn't hurt to give it a go."

"Sure," Rachel shrugged—what else did she have to do after school?—and Mr. Schuester grinned.

"Great. Do you have anything in mind yet? Practice starts at three in the choir room."

"I do. And I'll be there."

* * *

"For those who haven't met her personally," Mr. Schuester announced, "this is Rachel. She's here to audition."

The ones she hadn't spoken with—Mike, Finn, and Matt—nodded, while Finn's eyes then gradually drifted to the front row, where Quinn was sitting with Santana.

_How predictable_, Rachel silently scoffed, feeling an odd sense of annoyance with the quarterback for absolutely no reason.

Mr. Schuester sat with the club and Rachel moved to the center of the room. Leaning over to tell the pianist her selection, Rachel cleared her throat, preparing.

_"On my own...pretending he's beside me...all alone I walk with him 'til morning..."_

Her singing was actually a pastime, something discovered with amusement and boredom. During one of her repetitive weekend days about two years ago, she'd found a movie to watch to fill up the hours. _Funny Girl._ She'd liked it so much that she had wanted to sing just like Barbra Streisand, the lead, and her admiration of the film grew until she was renting movies from Broadway, listening and memorizing songs as she went. _Les Miserables_ was one of her favorites, and she'd chosen the song at random.

The scene in front of her eyes as she sang was extremely funny. Quinn's jaw dropped, Santana's eyes widened, Brittany beamed, Kurt and Mercedes looked torn between awe and jealousy, Tina and Artie smiled appreciatively, Matt, Mike, and Puck were stoic but astonished, and Finn simply looked surprised, as if she was reciting Tennyson.

Mr. Schue looked utterly delighted.

"_But only on my own..."_

Rachel finished with heaving breaths, and loud applause snapped her out of her stupor, led primarily by a gleeful Quinn and Brittany.

"That was excellent, Rachel," Mr. Schuester praised, looking impressed. "I think we have our new female lead, certainly well-earned, don't you guys think?"

Serious, firm, and eager nods followed, with only slight reluctance from two shell-shocked, pouting divas in the back row.

Quinn jumped up from her seat and wrapped Rachel in a hug before she could move, and felt her heart stutter and a blush crawl laboriously from her cheeks to her ears.

"That was awesome, Rachel," Quinn gushed, eyes sparkling. "I didn't know you'd bring down the house like that. I can't to see what else you've got!"

"Thank you," Rachel murmured bashfully, feeling like she'd thanked Quinn a million times today. Really, her face was practically on fire!

While Mr. Schuester and the pianist chatted about the performance, and Quinn had drifted to talk with Brittany and Santana, and the rest of the group had dissolved into conversation, Rachel let herself relax and a small smile settled on her lips, only to dim when she looked up the the back of the room. Finn was staring at her, his expression morphing from confusion, irritation, and a slight hint of jealousy, which became more obvious when he examined Rachel's happiness and her eyes darting to Quinn.

His eyes narrowed. Finn was slow, but he wasn't stupid.

Neither was she. Rachel had untold strength and agility, but this game was set on human levels.

Finn was envious of the growing friendship between Rachel and Quinn, while Rachel was jealous of the history between the blonde and the quarterback.

When Finn's cold gaze met her own, Rachel clenched her fists behind her back, still standing in front of the room, and felt her palms begin to burn.


	2. Adaptation

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Just to clarify, this is set in junior year, but season one of _Glee. _**

**Thank you all for the kind/awesome/wickedly nice reviews! Here's chapter two. Enjoy!**

**

* * *

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Her palms, gradually, started to radiate pure heat like a simmering stove. Her skin felt like it was cracking at the very seams, as if it was about to rip itself apart from the inside out. A slow, agonizing burn stretched from her fingertips to the flesh covering her carpal bones, and she turned around from the group, gritting her teeth.

_Don't panic, don't panic_, she thought. _It's just a Legacy._

A Legacy...now? Sure, she'd been waiting pretty damn impatiently for her entire life, and she'd have a defensive one up on the Mogadorians, _finally_, but this was—

"Rachel?" Mr. Schue called, still smiling delightedly. "Would you mind sitting down?"

Composing herself, she wrapped her left hand around her right wrist, nails digging indents into the sinewy curve of her forearm—barely preventing a cry of pain from escaping her mouth, it hurt so _badly_—and turned around, hitching a fake smile on her lips and walking to the only open seat, which was unfortunately next to Finn, who grimaced and rolled his eyes. Rachel sat down, teeth grinding together at both the blaze searing her hands and the chair next to her blatantly new adversary.

Mr. Schue immediately launched into an eager discussion about Sectionals, and the others offered song suggestions while Rachel focused on keeping her breathing steady. In through her nose, out through her mouth. And, repeat. Easy. The pain would stop eventually, it had to. She could delay this. She was strong, far tougher than a human.

"Hey," Finn whispered, and Rachel let her eyes land on his, cautious and expectant.

The boy appeared to be changing his tactics—interesting, and annoying, but sadly obvious—apparently not understanding the practice of _subtle_ schemes. Silly boy.

"Hello."

"I'm Finn," the jock smiled, but Rachel didn't detect any source of warmth or sincerity in it.

"I know. I'm Rachel," she replied indifferently, and Finn's smile tightened slightly.

"Now that we're both the leads, I think we should get to know each other a little better. You know, so we can rock out without any problems."

"Do you?" She questioned as casually as possible, keeping a tortured scream within her throat. Her hands trembled violently, as if afflicted with Parkinson's disease.

"Uh, yeah," Finn continued, flashing a supposedly adorable grin. "We'll be awesome."

Her head swam, feeling heavier and heavier.

"I'll have to decline the offer, Finn," Rachel countered, wiping her sweaty forehead. The room seemed to be sweltering, like she was in a sauna directly above hell. Shifting uncomfortably in her chair, as Finn's smile dropped off his face and transformed into an irritated scowl, Rachel felt the heat in her hands double and she raised her voice.

"Mr. Schuester?"

"Yes?"

"May I be excused?" Her delivery of the inquiry quavered, drawing attention to her immediately.

"Whoa," Kurt exclaimed, startled. "What's wrong with you?"

Everyone took in her rapidly deteriorating condition and the tears forming in her eyes, shocked.

"Rachel, are you okay?" Quinn asked, concerned, half-rising from her seat. "Should I take you to the nurse?"

"Yeah, I mean, no, I'm just...tired! _Tired,_ yes, and I think I have food poisoning," Rachel blurted out. "Bad sandwich."

"Lunch ladies," Brittany nodded sagely. "They love to throw rat poison in the mystery meat. They hate us. They're planning to kill us and take over the world, you know."

Rachel grimaced, choosing not to comment, and stood up slowly, drifting past Mr. Schue with a hand over her mouth, feigning sickness.

The door slamming concluded her exit, and Quinn remaining standing, uncertain of what to do.

"Should I check on her, Mr. Schue?"

"Give her a few minutes," Mr. Schuester advised.

* * *

Rachel slid down the bathroom wall to the floor, the chilled tiles a relief to her hot spell. Did this normally happen? Did Legacies render you powerlessly weak until you recovered? She needed to ask Leroy—Leroy! He couldn't know about this, not now. He'd throw a fit, isolate them (after Three's death, he'd been in near panic constantly), when they'd just settled down, again! She didn't want to leave Lima. Rachel was accepted here and already had one certain friend in Quinn and possibly a few others.

She'd hide it. The Legacy would have to wait; she had a life to live at the moment. She was Rachel Berry right now—being Number Four would have to be for another time.

Sure, she's delaying the inevitable. A disastrous, volatile inevitable. Legacies weren't to be underestimated—they were a serious business. All Loric children, those born of the Garde, that is, inherited powers. Such abilities were originally used to protect the planet from invaders (she knew how _that_ turned out), while the Cêpan, like Leroy, would be assigned train the Garde and become caretakers, teaching them Loric ways. One group, the Garde, to defend the planet, and the other, the Cêpan, to run it.

Rachel's fingers absently traced the scars circling her ankle, as the burn slowly, _slowly_, faded.

The scars embedded in her skin were important symbols. Three scars, three deaths. Each time one of the nine Loric children on Earth died—obviously murdered—a new scar would develop on the flesh of the remaining few as a warning. Rachel remembered the last one vividly—the boy who had been hiding in Kenyan jungle, off the grid. It happened when she was thirteen. She and Leroy had been living in Georgia, in a secluded neighborhood near the coast. Her sleep had been interrupted by a sudden burst of agony, she and her body screaming in protest as a distorted, glowing wound etched itself into her ankle. The other two scars were the same. Painful and unexpected.

She felt _really_ bad for Number Nine. Last to go, and eight identical, ugly scars to prove it. Unfortunate luck for the draw for that poor fellow.

Her hands cooled, bit by bit, until they were totally normal again, and she breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

The flesh, however, was slightly red, like it'd been nipped by wintry air or dipped in boiling hot water. Rachel frowned.

Before she could examine her palms further, the bathroom door creaked open and a blonde, lanky woman entered, looking to be in her late forties, and wearing a navy Adidas tracksuit. Her icy blue eyes narrowed in suspicion and disdain as she saw the form of Rachel sitting on the floor, and raised an eyebrow in question.

"Who are you? I don't recognize your surly face, and I know every student at McKinley."

"Rachel Berry, I'm a new student here," the brunette mumbled. The woman scoffed.

"Where did you get that?"

The woman pointed indignantly at the t-shirt Rachel was wearing—Quinn's borrowed one—with a sneer.

"I don't give out Cheerios shirts to newbies, Smurf," the woman growled. "Who'd you steal it from?"

The door opened again with a second squeak, and Quinn herself appeared, eyeing Rachel before looking at the other blonde, her warm expression hardening into cold dislike.

"Fabray."

"Ms. Sylvester."

"Do you happen to know why your Cheerios shirt is being defiled by—"

"Defiled?" Quinn repeated, glowering. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Ms. Sylvester stared at her pointedly. "I think you know what it means."

"I quit the squad, remember?" Quinn snapped. "I quit this year, that's it, done. Over. I'm not coming back. And she's my friend, I let her borrow it."

"You'll regret this," Sylvester sneered. "It's blood in or blood out. I decide when you leave."

"Whatever," Quinn shrugged. "I'm not a Cheerio, Ms. Sylvester, and I'm not scared of you. That's not who I am anymore. I needed to change."

"'Finding yourself', right," Sylvester mocked. "Trying to reform those old _habits_, Q?"

"Yes, actually," Quinn glared. Sylvester shook her head dismissively before stalking out. Rachel, silent for the exchange, was hopelessly lost. What were they talking about?

Quinn didn't spare the door another glance, but instead walked to where Rachel was sitting.

"Feeling any better?" Quinn asked, her tone much softer than a minute ago, her eyes gentle.

"Yes, thank you," Rachel answered, covering the scars with her hand. "What was that all about?"

Quinn sighed, plopping down to the tile beside Rachel, and pursued her lips in thought, deliberating whether to explain things completely or not.

"I used to be a huge bitch," Quinn declared finally, as Rachel raised her eyebrows. "I ruled McKinley. I ordered slushies, I tore down the confidence of anyone who contradicted me, I made a few boys cry once...it all came with the title. I was the Head Cheerio on the squad, and I knew I had to work to preserve my status. If everyone was afraid and admiring of me, I'd be the most popular girl in school, which I was. Santana and Brittany backed me up...well, Santana did. Brittany just copied her."

Quinn paused, frowning, before continuing with her story.

"Finn was my boyfriend. The Head Cheerio, and the quarterback of the football team...we were quite a cliche, and the golden couple, the one everyone envied. He listened to everything awful I said—it was like having a slave or something. But after a year and a half, I started to regret what I'd done. I didn't want to be that bully who would never have anything else in her life but short-termed, worthless high school popularity. I didn't like who I was becoming, and I don't know...I wanted to spite Finn. He represented everything wrong with my personality, and I just wanted to somehow ruin him. Ruin our relationship. He wasn't interesting to me anymore. It sounds...terribly superficial."

Rachel listened patiently, offering her free hand—humans did that in films, she recalled, it was a sign of camaraderie—and Quinn intertwined their fingers with a small sigh.

"Puck was his best friend...they recently are cool again. What you saw at lunch is noteworthy and unprecedented, but I'll keep going. So, I was upset over who I was, and Sylvester was really pushing the squad hard to be better, and my parents were fighting again—I couldn't deal with the pressure anymore. I 'borrowed' a few wine coolers from my father's liquor cabinet and went to Puck's house. He always threw good parties anyway, but beneath the rough, aggravating exterior is a great listener."

Quinn's eyes were distant, dimmed to a wistful pensiveness at the memory.

"One thing lead to another, but, I'll spare you the gory details. Anyway, I got pregnant. I cheated on my boyfriend with his best friend, and after that stupid, drunken decision to sleep with Puck, everyone saw how bad of a person I'd become because it was obvious and Puck couldn't take the guilt, and told the club. I used to love Finn, yes, but I hurt him...I don't even know what I was thinking at the time. The rest of sophomore year was spent listening to Puck ask me over and over about keeping the baby—we named her Beth—but I didn't want to. The baby deserved better than me, more than what Puck and I, two teenagers in Lima, Ohio, could offer. I gave the baby up, and spent the summer finding myself again. Before Cheerios, before the 'HBIC', and before high school. I wanted to recapture what I used to be, a chance to be nice."

Rachel smiled kindly and Quinn managed to return it.

"I came back to school, and marched right up to Ms. Sylvester and quit. I stayed in glee—which wasn't enrolled in real competitions until you came around, by the way—and apologized to everyone I could think of. I didn't expect anyone to forgive me, but most of the people here did. That I'll never understand, though. I'd spent the summer working off the baby weight and working to just stop thinking about other people and focus on me. I like having my life simple, and being friendly with anyone I speak with. I found other ways and hobbies to fill my time without Cheerios, and now...here we are," Quinn concluded, smiling shyly. "Sorry for throwing that at you all at once."

"It's okay," Rachel replied honestly. "It's nice to have someone to talk to."

"Don't you have any friends back home in Florida?"

"No," Rachel admitted. "My father and I...we move around a lot. He's restless sometimes. We don't spend too long in one place." _That's one way to look at it._

"You guys move just because your dad wants to?" Quinn remarked, surprised. "Wow."

Rachel shrugged.

"I guess I wanted to you hear the story from me," Quinn added after a few minutes. "Someone else would probably twist it around to make me look even more of a slut than I am. I do regret hurting Finn and Puck...my boredom and self-hate really made them suffer. It was a mistake. Yet somehow, Finn wants me again. I don't get it."

"Everyone makes mistakes, and it's in the past, now, right? But that doesn't mean you have to keep punishing yourself, Quinn."

"Thanks, Rachel."

Rachel nodded.

"I did tell you a ton though. It's your first day," Quinn joked. "Everything else will be boring for you."

Rachel laughed—half-sincerely and half-exasperatedly—and bumped shoulders with the blonde.

"I doubt that."

* * *

"Where have you been?" Leroy demanded as soon as she'd walked through the door.

"I joined a club," Rachel retorted. "You know, to make friends like you so tactfully suggested?"

"That doesn't mean you shouldn't call me," Leroy countered, but smiled slightly at the news.

"Sorry. I'll call you more often. Happy?"

"Ecstatic."

"So, I joined the glee club. It's a show choir, you know, singing, something I'm particularly excellent at," Rachel amended before he could ask. "I'm their new female lead."

"Fantastic, Rachel," Leroy smiled. "But were you wearing that outfit this morning?"

Knowing a slushie and almost Legacy caused self-combustion wasn't something Leroy needed to know, Rachel lied through her teeth. "I had gym class for my last period."

"Oh, right, no reason to change when you're going home," Leroy agreed, and Rachel nodded.

"I'll be upstairs, working on my homework," the brunette decided hurriedly.

"Are you alright?" Leroy questioned, eyebrows drawing together in confused concern. "You're really jumpy. Did you see something suspicious? A Mogadorian?"

"No, I'm fine. It's nothing," she answered, and hastened up to her bedroom, and closed the door behind her.

_Too close_, the fourth Loric teenager thought, leaning against the door. _I'll have to be more careful next time._

* * *

Rachel woke up early the next morning, and dressed comfortably, choosing pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, in case of a slushie attack. She brushed her hair back, and tucked a red headband behind her ears. With one last look at her reflection, she trotted downstairs, backpack in hand to find Leroy in the kitchen, with muddied, grimy dog.

"Do you buy a pet for me?" Rachel beamed. "Is this a surprise? I can work on acting surprised, if you like."

Leroy chuckled. "No, and not necessary. She just showed up on the doorstep. I thought we could keep her."

"She doesn't seem to mind," Rachel remarked happily, patting the dog on the head.

The dog barked once, wagging its tail.

"I call the name," Rachel announced suddenly, smiling victoriously. Leroy groaned.

"Fine. What did you choose?"

"Elphaba Brice," Rachel squealed, bouncing in place. "You know, for the _Wicked_ and _Funny Girl_ characters—"

"Of all the names...only you, Rachel," Leroy commented, amused. "I honestly regret letting you have this human hobby."

"If I was human, no doubt of it, I would be a Broadway star," Rachel huffed, offended. "Because I can't and must remain incognito, having moments like these are enough."

"Elphaba Brice," Leroy mused.

The dog barked twice, twirling excitedly in a circle.

"She likes it," Rachel pointed out, smug. Leroy rolled his eyes.

"Off to school, young lady."

"Fine," the brunette grumbled, and stooped low to pet Elphaba Brice on the snout once before departing out the door to walk to McKinley High.

Leroy watched the dog as the dog watched Leroy, looking oddly forlorn.

"Not yet," Leroy told her. "Soon."

Elphaba Brice whined sadly.

"Soon, I promise. She'll remember you, don't worry."

As if cheered by the thought, Elphaba Brice slobbered gleefully all over Leroy, who only shook his head.

* * *

Twisting her hands together in nervousness, Rachel stepped through the front doors of McKinley and hurried to her locker, glancing around for any sign of Karofsky or his cronies, or another dubious 'friendship' proposition from Finn. She twirled the combination quickly, and cranked open the door, scooping out the books she needed. Inches from grabbing her third textbook, the locker door slammed shut with a thunderous crash, her hand only escaping unscathed due to her spry, alien reflexes.

Her eyes found a leering, heavyset football player, the name _Azimio Adams_ embroidered in the stitches of his jacket and a cruel smirk on his face.

His right arm stretched across the metal, covering her locker, and in his left hand, was a cherry slushie.

"New girl," he greeted, smiling unpleasantly. "How goes it?"

"My name," Rachel retorted, "is Rachel Berry. At least give me the dignity of a correct address."

Azimio blinked.

"Call me by my actual name," Rachel elaborated, rolling her eyes. "Rachel. Rachel Berry."

"Listen, Berry," Azimio growled—("It's a start," Rachel sighed)—"my boy Karofsky's angry. At you."

"Why?" Rachel questioned innocently, as the hallway passerby eavesdropped. "I didn't—"

"You and Fabray humiliated him yesterday," Azimio snapped. "That shit just doesn't fly here. You're a sub-basement loser, and we're rockin' the freakin' penthouse. Got it?"

"You do know your sentence makes little sense to me, right?"

"Whatever," he snarled, irritated, tipping the slushie over her head, the icy, colored dregs dripping down her forehead and into her eyes.

Yet again, the corridor began to laugh, and Azimio sauntered away, receiving several high-fives.

The hallway emptied, leaving one slushied alien and an armful of books in her shaking hands.

Tasting a poor imitation of a cherry's flavor, Rachel wiped her face with her fingers and sighed, deciding to just go ahead to class. She didn't have clothes to change into and also didn't want to bother Quinn again, so she ambled to her History classroom, and sat down in the back row. Spying an oblivious Quinn in the front, with a hopeful Finn on her left, Rachel scowled. This feeling was...strange. She'd never really felt so...angry before. Sullen, even, about a _human_ she'd met only _yesterday_.

Perhaps it was the Ohio air or something. Right. Earth probably had areas that influenced emotions and messed with your mind. Definitely. She'd adapt to it.

Students entering the classroom during her contemplation giggled at her sodden appearance, and the chair beside her scraped noisily on the floor.

"Hey, Rachel," Mike Chang smiled, sympathetic. "Want to borrow something?"

"No, but thank you for the offer, Mike."

Mike patted her kindly on the shoulder and both turned to face the teacher, who was setting up a movie on their ancient VCR. Rachel nearly snorted. VCRS—how quaint.

"We're watching a documentary on World War I," he ordered tiredly. "Try to pay attention."

Rachel wondered why humans classified their wars in such a peculiar manner. It certainly wasn't the first armed conflict on the young planet.

The lights shut off and Rachel settled quietly in her seat, leaning her chin on her propped up hand.

As the documentary began, and the narrator started to describe the two Austrian murders in Serbia by assassins, a light brush of air tickled up the nape of Rachel's exposed neck, causing her to shiver. Her skin was prickling uncomfortably, and a sweat formed on her scalp. _Not again_, she thought, frightened.

Trying to distract herself from the oncoming, familiar heat she knew was building in her hands, she peered sideways at Mike.

Mike, instead of watching the movie, was unapologetically engrossed in a pamphlet littered with cartoon pictures of aliens and fuzzy, black and white images from the Internet of supposed 'real' incidents and witness accounts. Squinting in the darkness, Rachel could see Mike's little drawings in the margins—crop circles and gibberish, fabricated alphabets, along with crude scribblings of extra-terrestrials, with big heads and tiny bodies. _Great_, Rachel thought. _A believer in aliens. Just what I need._

The painful burn crept into her palms again, making her digits sear with the hellish heat. Her hands felt like they would disconnect themselves from their sockets and burn up like paper in a bonfire. Muffling a squeak of agony, she clenched her hands into fists, only to feel a circling blaze and a buzz of electricity, making her jump in her seat.

A blue flash gleamed dimly in the veins of her palm, snapping at her skin like a dart, and she covered the light with her shirt. The Legacy was manifesting too visibly, shit—

"Are you okay, Rachel?" Mike whispered. "You don't look too good."

"Fine," she wheezed unconvincingly. Mike frowned, disbelieving, returning his attention back to the pamphlet, but kept his body angled to hers.

Her hands vibrated, a spasm thrashing up her crossed arms as her palms gleamed bright blue, as if the blood in her body was independently and internally phosphorescent.

Her cheeks were smoldering, her forehead was sticky, and a dizziness began to cloud in her eyes. She had to get out. The lights would soon shine in the dark classroom.

Her hands jerked, the lights becoming incessantly bright, and a shudder traveled up into her shoulders. A gasp escaped her lips, and Mike glanced over, mouth dropping open. Rachel stood up so fast, her chair toppled to the ground, and she raced up the aisle, scrambling over backpacks and past desks. Students exclaimed in surprise and later, laughter, as she sprinted out of the room like a bat out of hell, hands hidden from sight and her head down. The teacher called after her, but Rachel was long gone.

Blinking at the fierce glare of light as she exited the classroom, Rachel didn't waste time—she dove into a janitor's closet, yanking the door closed behind her and locking it. Her palms were shining brighter than the sun at high noon, illuminating the closet with cobalt radiance. Panicked at the obvious strangeness of her actions to others, the dull ache in her body, and the attention-garnering flashes of light, she stuck her hands in the mop bucket, but the water only boiled and frothed like an underwater volcano.

She'll melt with the intensity of the heat, and probably be investigated with the light anomaly. Rachel squeezed her eyes shut in desperation—how could she get out of this?

Kneeling on the floor, her hands tucked under her arms, agonized tears streaming down her face, Rachel suddenly remembered her cell phone. Leroy! Leroy could help!

Extracting a luminous, quivering fist, she snatched her phone from her pocket and dialed the only contact saved on her list.

The call was picked up immediately—he always did, emergency or not—and Leroy's curious voice filled her ears. "Rachel?"

"Leroy," she sobbed thickly. "I...hurts, my Legacy...glowing hands—?"

"I'll be right over," was the response, and the connection was terminated. Rachel dropped her phone to the floor, and curled up, arms wrapped around her knees.

The wait for Leroy to arrive seemed to take forever—the door pounded several times, with a few timid knocks, and concerned voices calling for her. Rachel ignored them.

"Rachel?" Her Cêpan called, just outside—the only person she trusted implicitly, the savior to her torturous predicament, almost enough to make her cry more—"It's me."

Crawling on hands and knees, bluish beacons of light making shadows on the floor, the alien managed to unlock the door, and Leroy entered, closing it behind him.

Leroy, dressed in overalls, was covered in dirt, and conveniently, wearing gardening gloves. He took them off and placed them on her hands, and squeezed them soothingly.

"It's okay," he muttered, an unexpected, proud glint in his gaze. "I'm bringing you home."

"Asthma attack—it's believable. Or an anxiety induced panic attack...something...something to explain it," Rachel murmured. Leroy nodded.

"Let's go."

Leroy wrapped an arm around her weakened shoulders, steering her outside. A group had gathered—Quinn, Principal Figgins, Mike, Finn, and her History teacher. Too tired to wonder why the expressionless quarterback was there, Rachel turned her head into Leroy's chest (his height against hers was significant, rivaling a basketball player).

"She forgot her inhaler...horrible asthma," Leroy explained bracingly. "I'll just take her home today, if that's alright with you two."

His steely, intimidating gaze on Principal Figgins and the teacher was enough for them to nod and offer several condolences, too uneasy of Leroy to argue.

"I'll bring your backpack later," Quinn volunteered sympathetically. "Okay, Rachel?"

Rachel mumbled a noise of grateful assent, and tightened her grip on Leroy's shirt when the pain was becoming awfully unbearable, to which the man took the hint and hastened to say goodbyes and usher her out of the building. Leroy stopped walking and bent down, scooping Rachel's legs over his left arm and cradling her like a child. Striding to the truck left in neutral, Leroy carefully placed Rachel in the passenger seat and buckled her in, before shutting the door and hurrying to the driver's side.

They zoomed back to the house, Leroy completely disregarding Lima speeding laws, who carried her inside, depositing the fourth Lorien teenager gently on the couch.

Leroy removed the gloves from Rachel's hands, and both Lorics examined her glowing, upturned palms, the left flickering dimly, and the right stronger than ever. The burn was fading away, lessening slowly, like yesterday, Rachel noticed. Her right palm's brightness resembled a flashlight stream, and she nearly laughed at Leroy's pleased smile.

"Do I get lasers from my hands?" Rachel wondered sleepily.

"That would be amazing...and terrifying, but no. It's something else," Leroy answered. Elphaba Brice bounded downstairs, paws clicking loudly, and licked Rachel's nose.

"Eww," Rachel complained. Elphaba barked, tongue wagging eccentrically.

"She saying hello," Leroy grinned. "Be polite."

"She's a dog," Rachel grumbled, but allowed a small smile to affix itself upon her lips. "Hello, Elphaba. Enjoying your day in the wonderful land of Oz?"

Elphaba sneezed.

"Exactly," Rachel amended approvingly. "Elphaba didn't particularly like Oz. Good job, Ms. Brice. She's a dog worthy of my attention."

Leroy laughed, and Elphaba wagged her tail again.

"Does this mean we get to open the Chest soon?" Rachel queried, watching her hands gleam absentmindedly.

"Of course."

"Yay," Rachel mumbled, exhausted but excited at the same time. The Chest was an intricately carved, wooden box, weathered with age, about the size of a small television set, with a perplexing Loric symbol depicted onto one of the sides. The Chest was another constant in her life, besides the road atlas kept in Leroy's truck. Unable to be opened and entirely frustrating beyond measure, Rachel had given up trying to unseal it—a lock in the center prevented it from opening, and what was worse, Leroy had adamantly refused to tell her what was inside. Rachel always assumed the big reveal would have to wait until the gift of her Legacies, and finally, the time had arrived.

"Get some rest, Rachel," Leroy advised, as Rachel's eyes began to close, as she struggled to remain awake.

"What about the Chest?"

"Later," the Cêpan replied. "It's been a stressful day for you anyway...Rachel?"

Already asleep, the brunette didn't reply. Leroy smiled and made sure the girl was comfortable before ascending the stairs to his room.

Legacies, warnings, and ancient Loric secrets could wait, at least for awhile.

* * *

Rachel woke up when the sky was dark, and a distant clock displayed a time after seven-thirty. Rubbing her eyes with the heel of her now normal hand, she sat up.

She found Leroy in his room, frowning at a computer screen. Two other laptops were open on a table, pulled up to major news sites, like CNN, USA Today, or MSNBC.

"What's going on?"

"Keeping an eye out," Leroy remarked, unimpressed with his findings. "Listen to this: a fourteen year old in Morocco apparently fell from a four-story building and was able to walk away unharmed...Denmark girl, twelve, was underwater for over an hour without scuba gear and lived... and fifteen year old in Alaska claiming to be the Messiah."

"Interesting," Rachel commented wryly. "And what you aren't saying is that humans either have elaborate hoaxes very often, or, maybe, one of these children are Lorics."

"Correct."

Rachel sat down on a desk chair, feeling slightly better. Physically, at least. Emotionally, well...her long-awaited Legacy had finally appeared, right, but was also a curse in disguise. She'd have to be twice as careful. Legacies often were affected by mood, Leroy had told her once. If she got too angry, or, for the almighty love of Lorien, too _embarrassed_—Quinn Fabray's demeanor toward her being a prime suspect in that instance—her hands could glow, which would be quite a quagmire to navigate out of.

"The possibility is low, though," Leroy mused, interrupting Rachel's inner turmoil. "Loriens wouldn't be so obvious. They'll know well enough to hide."

"On the other hand," Rachel prompted, "they could be _accidental_ discoveries of us by clueless humans, who lucked into to being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Bull's eye."

"What are we going to do about it?"

"Nothing," Leroy answered. "Lay low, as usual. But we do need to talk about the Legacy situation. Do you know what it is?"

"Lights in my hands," Rachel deadpanned. "I'd make a fantastic superhero, wouldn't I? Flashlight Girl. I'll help you navigate your house in the event of a blackout."

Leroy barely suppressed a laugh and kept a stern expression on his face. "Be serious, Rachel. Your Legacy is called Lumen. You'll be able to control those lights soon."

"I'll reiterate...Flashlight Girl."

Leroy chuckled. "Lumen isn't just about light. Do you remember anything about your grandparents?"

Rachel looked into the distance, focusing on the memory of her grandmother's tears, the explosions, and hugging her grandfather goodbye. Lorien tradition was for children being raised by their grandparents while their parents, after giving birth between twenty-five and thirty-five years old, continued to train themselves and hone their own Legacies. Anything noteworthy she could recall was her grandfather's coveted ability to turn invisible, along with anything he touched for a time duration of his choosing.

"Yes. Why?"

"Your grandfather had the same trait, you know."

"I never saw him use it, Leroy."

"No need. He was an old man, why would he use it?"

Old was exactly right—Loric life expectancies could reach up to two hundred years old, vastly longer than a human could even dream of.

Elderly Loriens just raised children; Leroy was correct. She wouldn't have seen her grandfather use Lumen. There was no situation to.

"So," Rachel shrugged, "I'll have a useless ability. Great. I bet all the other kids are having a grand time with _cool_ powers."

Elphaba Brice, having trotted into the room sometime ago, snuffled quietly, almost chiding. Then Rachel remembered they aren't having a grand time, they're nervously remaining in hiding so they won't be slaughtered by Mogadorians. Feeling extremely stupid, Rachel blushed and Leroy chose to ignore her outburst.

"Lumen is not useless. Give me your hand," Leroy ordered patiently, "and close your eyes."

Rachel sighed and scooted the chair closer, hearing the wheels glide across the hardwood floor. Extending her hand in Leroy's direction, she squeezed her eyes shut.

Leroy's grip encircled her wrist, and a tickle of air touched her fingertips, but nothing more. She cracked open an eye, and yanked her hand away.

"You had a lighter on me. I could've burned," Rachel huffed indignantly. "Why?"

"Did you feel it?" Leroy pressed.

Rachel paused.

"No."

"Exactly. Lumen not only gives off light to be used in the hands, but is a segue for the better part—invulnerability to flames and intense heat."

"No way," Rachel breathed. Leroy nodded, and gestured to her arm with the lighter.

"Let's try again."

This time, she watched as the tiny column of flickering fire touched her fingers, but didn't harm her at all. It was just weightless air, leaving her completely unscathed. Only when Leroy moved the lighter higher, toward her forearm, did the sharp burn actually hurt. She pulled her arm away, wincing a little at the sting. Leroy looked delighted.

"It's already started, excellent. Just in your hands, for now, but eventually, it will spread to your entire body."

"Will I get any other Legacies, besides telekinesis, like everybody else on the Garde?"

"Yes. Telekinesis will be second, followed by your third and final Legacy. Combining those three with your strength, intelligence, and agility, you're a capable soldier."

"Capable?" Rachel repeated, sulking. "I'll be great, not just 'capable'."

"Right," Leroy allowed. "We'll be starting training again soon. Make sure school and your glee club don't interfere with that."

"Okay."

"Also, did anyone see you?" Leroy asked. "Did anyone see the Legacy on your hand?"

Knowing instantly that Leroy would flip out if she admitted that maybe Mike Chang could've seen something significant enough to be suspicious, Rachel shook her head.

"No," she answered calmly, lying to him for only the second time in her life and ignoring the remorse twisting in her gut. She liked Lima already, and if any hint of speculation or confusion surfaced and pointed to Rachel, they'd be on the highway to a distant state, bags packed, in less than thirty minutes. Leroy was her constant companion, but she wanted to stick around, at least for a little while, where she was finding a niche in McKinley and the glee club. "I kept it hidden," she added.

"Good."

Before either could speak again, Elphaba Brice, laying on the floor's rug, lifted her head off her paws, a growl slipping through her teeth. The dog's ears flattened down.

Rachel recognized the action as an aggressive action by canines—it was a sign of dominance to a foe. Elphaba must've sniffed out someone outside.

The golden retriever climbed swiftly to her feet, growling at the head of the stairs, and Leroy and Rachel exchanged looks.

The Loriens were about to get up and see what the fuss was when the source of Elphaba's alertness revealed itself in the form of a reverberating chime, puzzling them both.

The doorbell rang.


	3. Darwinism

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Slowing down the action a bit (which will return soon)—this chapter's more about bullying, like John deals with in the book. Mike is Sam Goode's role.**

**All the reviews made me smile, thank you for taking the time to do so. Hope you all enjoy!**

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* * *

**

Elphaba's suspicious growling continued as the doorbell chimed again, and Rachel nudged the hound sideways with her foot, the dog compiling rather reluctantly. Leroy leaned against the banister, just out of sight, while Rachel descended the stairs, approaching the front door, cautious. They hadn't faced Mogadorians before—the possibility of attack was limited, but not to be overlooked. Rachel pulled the door open, dreading for the visitor, only to smile when Quinn Fabray stood on the front steps, Rachel's backpack over her shoulder and concern swirling in her hazel gaze. _Right, Quinn had mentioned coming over later,_ Rachel remembered.

"Quinn, hi," Rachel beamed, and distinctly heard Leroy shoo a whining Elphaba in his room, shut the door, and sneak down the stairs to hide the Chest and any other Loric equipment left out in the open. "What's up?"

"Hey," Quinn replied, looking relieved. "You're okay, right?"

"I—yes, thank you," Rachel caught herself. "Once I had my inhaler, I was all set."

"Good. I was worried. I got your address from Puck's mom—oh, here," Quinn offered, holding out the backpack for Rachel to take. Rachel's fingers curled around the strap and accidentally brushed against Quinn's, who pulled her own hand away in anxious alarm. "Are you really alright? You feel sort of feverish to me."

"I'm just warm blooded," Rachel joked. Her Legacy must be nearing again. _Shit. Double shit._

"I snagged your assignments, too," Quinn added after they'd shared a laugh. "Mr. Schue didn't mind that you went home either. He was too busy flirting with Ms. Pillsbury."

"The guidance counselor?" Rachel questioned. The blonde nodded.

"They have this friendly-sexual tension-coworker-talking type of relationship. It's weird."

"Would you like to come in?" Rachel asked—too hopefully, _great_—and internally winced at her overzealousness. "I mean, if you wanted to stay for dinner, but it is a little late and I'm sure you must've eaten already, and if you don't mind, you can stop me anytime, I tend to ramble in excess when I'm nervous—"

"Whoa, slow down," Quinn giggled. "I would, but I have to get back to Brittany's."

"Oh. Right."

Before the silence could become awkward, Quinn advanced closer, leaning slightly over the threshold, and pulled Rachel into a quick hug. "I'm glad you're okay. You had me scared a little there, Berry," she whispered in the other girl's ear, smiling amusedly, making Rachel's skin flush and her palms to twinge warningly. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

Quinn skipped down the front stairs to her car, waved, and drove away, leaving Rachel frozen.

"Rachel?" Leroy called suddenly from the kitchen. "Is your friend gone or is she staying?"

The brunette, still rooted in the doorway, finally blinked, having been staring in the direction Quinn's car had left for several minutes. Shaking her head to clear the stunned fog enveloping her brain, she closed the door, dropping her bag to the floor and ambling into the kitchen, at a loss for coherent speech. What was this human _doing_ to her?

Her brain could only compute a curiosity about if Quinn was normally this affectionate with somebody new to town, or her other friends.

Leroy studied her expression, and looked almost disapproving, but didn't comment on it.

"Quinn was bringing my schoolbag and homework for me," Rachel explained quietly. "She's a friend from glee club."

"Ah."

Rachel searched through her bag until she located her cell phone, thankfully finding the battery half-full.

"Oh, good," Rachel mumbled. "Thought I lost it."

Leroy frowned, a silent order for her to elaborate. Rachel shrugged, nonchalant.

"I called you and I dropped my phone on the floor because my hands were hurting so much," she clarified. "Quinn must've picked it up."

"Don't let something like that happen again," Leroy warned. "If someone found it—"

"I know, an investigation, right," Rachel rolled her eyes. Leroy scowled.

"How many times do I have to tell you, Rachel? This isn't a laughing matter, nor should you let your guard down, especially around humans. They can get suspicious at the blink of an eye. Your life is at stake every time you do something careless! Being careless gets you killed, just like One, Two, and Three. You and I know how to assimilate—the others panicked and didn't cover their tracks enough, making them vulnerable to detection. You need to be more careful," Leroy urged. "I don't want you to get hurt."

"I know how to blend in," Rachel scoffed. "It's all I've _ever_ known, Leroy."

"You almost showed your Legacy to an entire high school. That's not blending in."

"Is your silly lecture over yet?" Rachel demanded. "I'm tired of listening to your incessant scolding about something I am already well aware of."

"Get some rest," Leroy snapped back. "We'll open the Chest tomorrow instead."

"Fine!" Rachel yelled, stalking out of the kitchen and stomping irritably up the stairs. Feeling particularly spiteful this evening, she shot her foot down hard, hearing wood splinter loudly and leaving a gaping hole in the fifth step from the floor. Adding insult to injury, she dragged her bag pointedly, making it scrape across the 'amazing floors' Mrs. Puckerman had raved about, and finally, slammed her bedroom door shut, rattling it on the hinges, and enjoying the opportunity to aggravate Leroy further.

To her dismay and exasperation, her hands began to glow faintly—no doubt due to her anger—and her veins brightening in her skin like vibrant, azure lines of mercury.

Luckily and strangely, her palms lacked the burn; she only felt a subtle heat, like she'd been standing in front of a campfire. Must be adapting to it, she supposed.

"This is going to be a problem," Rachel murmured to herself, laying down on her bed and stretching out.

Turning her palm skyward, she watched the indigo brilliancy dance across her ceiling like spotlights, casting long, stretching shadows.

Feeling oddly drowsy again, she let her eyes drift shut, and voyaged headlong into an unfamiliar dream.

* * *

_She was running, becoming a barely discernible blur of color through the trees, her lungs seizing up tightly in her chest, desperate for air. Her eyes strained to see clearly, narrowed uselessly in the gloom. A shrieking call broke the uneasy silence as she sprinted for her life, the sound belonging to a distant bird. Quickly quieted, the only noise was the swishing of the leaves and the snapping of twigs, her frenzied breaths, and the pursuit of her enemy, already gaining speed._

_"Run," he had croaked, and she had obeyed his command without hesitation. __Her Cêpan was dead, slaughtered and left behind in their home away from home._

_The sky was clear and cloudless when she could see again, glittering stars stretched across it in an eternal beauty she didn't have time to appreciate._

_Pushing her body faster, faster, and further, she ducked into another section of trees, hearing heavy, clomping boots against soil, keeping up effortlessly with her pace. _

_There wasn't a way out, she'd be captured for sure. Was this the end? A hunt and a fruitless chase and...wait at a moment—_

_There! A ravine! She could lose them! She raced forward, tearing across the grass like a rocket and when nearing the edge, only hesitated instinctively for a moment before accelerating, flying through the air for several terrifying seconds, and landing hard on the other side with a tumble of limbs and a puff of air. She scrambled ungracefully to her feet, allowing herself to relax. She'd escaped, there was no way they'd be able to reach her now. As she prepared to sprint, a hand snatched her roughly by the arm._

_Squirming and clawing and struggling to break free from her captor amidst gravelly, rasping laughter on all sides, she only then realized that there were more of them, far more than she originally believed. At least a dozen, give or take. Six around her, and the six who had been chasing her, circling around the ravine to meet up with the group. The Mogadorian who held her lifted her up to his level, grasping her by the shirt. Her eyes, unable to look away, took in the ferocious appearance of the barbaric race; eyes deeper and harder than coal, yet empty and emotionless, pale skin marked with tattoos, and a black trenchcoat, almost seeming to be part of the night itself. The Mogadorian reached out a ghastly hand, and snatched the pendant from her neck—exact to the identifying scar on her right ankle—to stow away in his pocket._

_Her vision of the Mogadorian shifted, and she suddenly felt lighter, weightless, and appeared to be separating from her intangible body, like a ghost departing sluggishly from a corpse. She blinked woozily, glancing around, still in the same vicinity, but a familiar boy was in her previous predicament, sweating and fearful in the Mogadorian's grasp._

_She had become a spectator to the scene, no longer a participant, and watched on, horrified and unable to change history._

_The boy—Number Three, hiding in the Kenyan jungle, she realized—spoke up, trying to muster his bravery in the face of inevitable death._

_"The Legacies live," he warned quietly, a calmness settling into his tone, knowing his fate. "They will find each other and when they're ready, they're going to destroy you."_

_The Mogadorian emitted a low, harsh laugh of disbelief, and his cohorts joined in, mockingly. Nine inexperienced, frightened children and their babysitters, sans weapons, wouldn't defeat _them_, the fiercest species in the universe, and Lorien's pathetic race would soon be eliminated from existence, just another victory to their final goal._

_The Mogadorian reached into his trenchcoat, the others still chuckling nastily, as if it was all for sport. Extracting a shimmering sword, about three feet long, the only weapon able to break the protection surrounding the boy and his fellows, it raised the blade to the sky, and the once clear heavens funneled a streaming column of silvery light onto the weapon, grayish flames gleaming and merging into the metal, a metallic screech slicing through the night as an aftereffect. She watched helplessly as Number Three's hope vanished entirely, accepting his end, and when the Mogadorian lifted him higher and plunged the sword deep into the boy's chest, Rachel screamed._

* * *

"Rachel, Rachel," a voice implored urgently. "Stop. Wake up, Rachel."

Her eyes flew open with a shuddering gasp and she was back in her bedroom, safe and sound in Lima, Ohio.

Leroy was sitting at the end of the bed, Elphaba Brice sitting on the floor, tongue dangling from her mouth. Leroy looked worried.

"You were yelling in your sleep," her caretaker told her. "What happened?"

"I had a...vision of some sort," Rachel admitted. "I was reliving Three's death from four years ago."

"In the jungle," Leroy mused, and Rachel nodded.

"It was like I was Three, and then I...separated from it, and became the bystander to watch him die."

"That's been known to happen," Leroy agreed, sympathetic. "I have similar dreams more often than not."

"Will the others see it?" Rachel asked curiously. "Five, Six...?"

"Probably. You're all connected by the charm and memories. That isn't the last incident you'll see, however. Our training will only provoke more."

"I can handle it...I think."

"Will you be able to attend classes with your Legacy today?" Leroy inquired. "If you aren't feeling up to it, I—"

"No, no, I'm fine," Rachel assured him quickly. "I don't want to miss any more days."

"If you're sure," Leroy frowned, not really buying it, and stood up. "Alright. But you'll have to start running to school each day. It's part of the training we'll be starting."

"Great," Rachel muttered.

"Oh, by the way," Leroy said, before he walked out the door, "you'll be paying for that step."

"What?" She shouted, but Leroy was already gone, safely downstairs from her wrath. "Damn it."

Rachel sulked and Elphaba Brice whined softly.

"It's _his_ fault, not mine."

Elphaba seemed to be skeptical of her opinion, and Rachel sighed.

"Whatever. Stupid, stupid Leroy," the brunette grumbled, shuffling to her wardrobe for something to wear.

The dog huffed—Rachel sensed the disappointment coming from Elphaba—and trotted out of the room, while Rachel dressed slowly, feeling worn out and violated. She didn't want to witness flashbacks or memories of her counterparts and their demises. She pitied them, for going first, but at the same time, a small, wistful part of her envied their place. Terrible and selfish as that may have sounded, One, Two, and Three were gone and didn't have to worry about restoring Lorien to its former glory and preserving their traditions. They didn't have to fear being followed or discovered or massacred by Mogadorians. They were dead and gone, completely free from responsibility, unlike her.

Rachel examined her image in the mirror, pulling the sleeves down over her hands, just in case. Gloves would look stupid, but she stored them in her bag anyway.

After she had eaten a light breakfast and gave Leroy an obvious cold shoulder (his amusement only continued), Rachel slung her backpack over her shoulders, filled with her Lorien emergency supplies, school books and materials, and several changes of clothes, just in case of another slushie shower. Bading her Cêpan goodbye, Rachel darted out of the house, relishing in the cool breeze whipping through her hair. Her legs sped to McKinley by leaps and bounds, soaring through town like a bullet from a gun, and when she arrived in the parking lot, she hadn't even broken a sweat. Rachel loved her Loric endurance and agility. It would come in handy someday, she knew that much.

Fishing her phone out from her bag, she frowned, noticing a notification, by Contacts, unnoticed.

_New Contact added: Quinn Fabray_.

A smile grew on her face. Quinn must've added her number before dropping by Rachel's house. Rachel hoped her day would continue to be as good as its beginning.

* * *

Upon approaching her locker before her first class started, she heard a span of muffled giggles, succeeded by low chuckles, and lastly, whispered orders for silence. In her peripheral vision, she spotted a flash of red and black—a cheerleader—and then, red and white, somehow burlier—a football player—and growled lowly. Really? Pranks? She didn't want to stoop to their level, of course, because she was of a higher species and far smarter than immature humans, even if they were the same age. At least Lorics were raised with some degree of integrity; humans appeared to taunt and tease for their own ends, usually when someone is too different or too annoying for their taste.

Recognizing that yes, something bad was in her locker, and uh huh, the crux of the trick was for her to open her locker and see whatever horror was placed inside—how original and how did they even know her locker sequence?—so she simply exhaled deeply and twirled the combination, and as the door was opening, she barely managed to leap out of the way of _manure_ falling down in a shower of smelly dirt and landing on the floor, just missing her shoes. Glancing in the interior, Rachel noted with exasperated frustration that her other books were completely ruined, further stalling her potential grades that were already stunted with her absence from yesterday.

Football players and Cheerios emerged from the corridor's end, howling with laughter as they stepped around the manure pile, already starting to stink up the hallway.

"Hey."

Rachel sighed and turned, finding an apologetic Mike, recoiling from the pile of manure, and grimacing.

"Hello."

"I tried to stop them," Mike told her without preamble, hands in his pockets. "They dumped some in my locker too for not helping with yours."

"You're different than they are," Rachel observed quietly. "Yet you're on the team. Why?"

"A ticket out of Lima," Mike explained. "Scholarships get you to college. Nobody wants to stay here, unless they're old or crazy or something."

Rachel felt slightly sad—she didn't have normal aspirations like Mike; all she knew about was running, running, running. She wondered how long she would be doing so.

"That doesn't equal being a bully," she said at length.

"Comes with the positions, I guess."

Remembering Quinn's regretful words and knowing Mike's sincerity, Rachel simply nodded.

"I also wanted to check on you. Feeling any better?"

"Yes, thank you for asking," Rachel answered, smiling at Mike, who grinned back.

"You ran out of there pretty fast. You should try out for the track team."

"Are you making fun of me?" Rachel asked playfully.

"Definitely," Mike teased. "You were out of there like Wile E. Coyote on Road Runner's tail."

Pretending to understand the reference, Rachel smiled. "I noticed your drawings in there. They're sweet."

"It's a little hobby, for fun," Mike shrugged, and gestured to the manure currently reeking into their noses. "Want to head to Figgins and talk about this?"

"Of course," Rachel replied, and linked arms with Mike, who led the way to the principal's office.

"You know, Mike, a football scholarship isn't the only way out of here," Rachel remarked. Mike eyed her curiously.

"What is?"

"Art schools offer quite a lot of money too, you know," she commented. "Your drawings could get you places."

"Yeah, that's a good idea," he mused, thoughtful. "I'd also like to apply for dance. Brittany and I are the best dancers in glee."

They sat down on a bench in the waiting room, the secretary studiously ignoring them after telling them to be patient —Figgins was a busy man. Whatever.

"You seem to like drawing aliens," Rachel offered, hoping she didn't sound too accusatory or nervous. "Why?"

"I'd tell you, but then I'd have to kill you," Mike joked—Rachel's laugh was too high and too fake even to her own ears, but the boy didn't appear to notice— "no, I'm just kidding. I've always believed in aliens, ever since...my dad and I used to, together, when I was a kid. But to me, it's not completely wrong. Mars has frozen water on it, so it could've supported life, like, millions of years ago or something. Why else would there be Area 51? Or all those UFO sightings? I just know it—something's out there."

"You might be right," Rachel agreed—he _was_ talking to one in person—a smile growing on her face. "Mike Chang, you closeted geek. Hiding behind that silly jock's persona."

Mike blushed. "Don't tell anyone! I have to keep my football facade going. That doesn't help when I'm wearing a NASA t-shirt under my jacket."

"Any conspiracy theories?"

"Lots," Mike nodded eagerly, but stood up with Rachel as Figgins gestured for them to enter his office. "I'll tell you a few sometime."

* * *

"Manure?" Figgins repeated incredulously.

"Manure," Rachel affirmed.

"Manure," Mike remarked, a tad too late. Figgins sighed.

"I'll get our custodians on this right away," the principal decided. "We'll find you two new textbooks as well."

"Principal Figgins, Mike and I know who the culprits are," Rachel declared. "Mike?"

"It was Dave Karofsky...Azimio Adams, Finn Hudson," Mike recalled, "some of the other guys, and a few Cheerios too. I saw them do it."

"It's just a silly prank," Figgins disagreed, shrugging, his tone becoming defensive. Rachel's eyes narrowed, and flitted suspiciously around the office—football pictures, trophies, and articles were littered in every corner, with a space cleared for the next championship in one of the cases. "I'm sure these boys didn't mean any harm."

"They ruined our textbooks and throw slushies in my face," Rachel exclaimed indignantly. "This is real harassment and I just arrived here. What am I supposed to think?"

"Harassment is a strong word, Ms. Berry," Figgins countered, grave. "I would need more evidence."

"This is favoritism," Rachel snapped. Mike paled—you never accuse a teacher of that. That was below the belt.

"I've done nothing of the sort," Figgins retorted, naturally. His desk phone began to ring, and he pressed the speaker button, allowing the secretary to deliver her message.

"_Principal Figgins, the Lima Gazette reporter is here to interview you about the State Conference."_

Rachel's triumphant glare soured when Figgins cut off the call, as Mike tried and failed to look as annoyed as Rachel did, while he, unlike her, knew how Figgins would react.

"Please excuse me," Figgins ordered, shooing them firmly out of his office. "Off to class. I have an interview I need to do."

Rachel jumped up from her chair and left in a huff, and Mike scurried after her, sidestepping the reporter on his way out.

"Rachel, hey, wait a sec," Mike called, jogging to the brunette and falling into step with her. "It's always been like that."

"The bullies win, right?" She rolled her eyes, bitter. "Obviously."

"Figgins always picks the money-makers first," Mike explained. "I'm on the team, but I'm not great. Finn and Karofsky have a strategy that makes them winners. Figgins loves that—McKinley gets noticed and so does he for his work as an educator to a winning football team. We're a small town, Rachel. He won't listen to people like us."

Rachel didn't reply. She was tired of all this; aggressors pushing her around because they believed they could, teachers ignoring the blatant bullying to keep up the status quo, and the fact that, as Mike said, people like her, the inconsequential mass, couldn't be helped because they brought nothing to the table. She was sick of letting the hits keep going—she wanted to make a change. Her situation was drastically similar: the Mogadorians kept attacking, kept searching because they wanted to destroy the weak and reap the rewards as winners. Lorics were terrified, content to run and unable to be unified. For the first time in her entire life, Rachel wanted to stand up to someone.

She was a Loric child, gifted with extraordinary powers, an intellect to rival geniuses, and a strength that outmatched a human's at least twenty to one.

If she really wanted to, she could snap Karofsky's neck with a flick of her finger, or send him flying into the next county. So why didn't she?

Okay, killing and maiming him was too extreme, she knew that much. She need to lie low, not become a notewothy mass murderer. Stooping to Karofsky's level? Easier.

She discreetly checked her hands, still hidden by her long sleeves. Both faintly glowing, mostly in her dominant hand, the right. Rachel would need to calm down first.

"I want to fight back," Rachel said finally, and Mike nodded, knowing they both wanted that. For the football team—himself not included—to be hurt for a change.

"How?"

"I don't know," she answered. "I'll have to think about it."

Mike looked up as the bell rang, signaling that lunch was just beginning—they'd been talking and in Figgins's office longer than expected. "Should we go?"

"Yeah. We can find a table and plan out our revenge."

"You remind me of Marvin the Martian. Short height, devious mind and all that jazz," Mike commented, smiling. Rachel tilted her head to the side, puzzled.

"I've never heard of him."

"_What_?" Mike gasped. "Okay, this is serious. I'll explain before we start planning. Marvin the Martian is a notorious character in the Looney Tunes universe..."

* * *

"...so, this alien cartoon's plan to destroy Earth with a stick of dynamite is foiled every single time by an anthropomorphic rabbit named 'Bugs'," Rachel recited, confused.

"Yeah! But he's a bunny, not a rabbit," Mike correct, grinning, and stole two of her French fries. Rachel frowned.

"It sounds absurd. How could you destroy an entire planet with only a stick of dynamite in your artillery? You'd blow yourself up, more likely."

"I really don't know," the dancer admitted. "But it's fun too watch!"

Mike went to steal more of Rachel's uneaten food when a disgusting _splat_ hit the back of his head, spaghetti sauce oozing down his neck and ears as a meatball—obviously intended to hit Rachel herself—fell to the floor with a _plop_. Another one sailed through the air and hit Rachel's cheek; she grabbed a napkin, wiping off the sauce, repulsed.

The brunette scowled as the cafeteria burst into giggles, and the football team's table exploded into jaunty cheers. Mike sighed.

"Okay, that's enough," Rachel muttered furiously, standing up from the table. Mike's eyes followed her path as the room quieted, anticipating a blowup.

Finn and Karofsky were still sniggering when she appeared at their table.

"Hey, Rachel," Finn laughed. "What's up?"

Karofsky chuckled, standing in front of the table, in the way of the team. "Berry."

"These pranks are getting old," she snapped, hands on her hips. "Stop them before I—"

"Talk to Figgins?" Karofsky jeered. "Right, like that'll work. The dude supports us. Sorry. Those are the breaks for losers like you."

Rachel, quicker than anyone could have expected, brought her knee up at attempted MACH speed into Karofsky's groin, who yelped to rival a high F of a soprano. He doubled over, keeling to his side and landing hard on the linoleum floor with a strangled whimper. Ignoring Karofsky's wheezes and cries of pain, Rachel turned to the table again.

"Stop the pranks," she ordered. "I'll do the same thing to each and every one of you."

A hand on her shoulder stilled any more violence from the fourth Lorien, and the lunchroom attendant cut into the conversation: "Three of you to Figgins. Now."

"Hey, look what she did to Dave," Finn protested. "Totally uncalled for, man."

"Can it, Hudson, I saw what you did," the attendant barked. "Go."

Finn hauled Karofsky to his feet, bumping his shoulder past Rachel, who followed the two, and Mike reappeared at her side, his neck still covered in sauce.

Rachel felt Quinn's eyes trailing after the quartet as she sat with Santana, Brittany, Kurt, Mercedes, Artie, and Tina, but didn't meet her gaze.

"I can't wait to see what Figgins says," Mike mumbled.

Rachel wondered the same.

* * *

"Bullying will not be tolerated in McKinley," the principal declared, seeming to focus his intent in Rachel's direction, "none of any kind whatsoever."

"She kicked Dave really hard," Finn piped up. "He could barely breathe for a minute there."

"Karofsky and you manured my locker and Mike's, and threw food at us," Rachel snarled. "And both he and Azimio hurled slushies at me. How is that fair?"

"They said you asked for it."

"That doesn't make sense, you useless and annoying, pathetic excuse for a h—"

"Enough," Figgins interrupted. "Hudson, Karofsky, you should know better by now."

"Sir, we have to get to that _Gazette_ guy," Karofsky croaked pointedly. "The interviews?"

"Go ahead. Make Lima proud!" Figgins answered automatically, a hopeful smile on his face. Karofsky nodded, sending a cautious leer to Rachel.

The two jocks ambled out of the office, and Figgins's expression cooled, eyeing Rachel and Mike with a superior disdain.

"Violence is not the answer. It never will be," the principal stated.

Mike rolled his eyes.

"I will expect better of you both in the future. You'll be let off with a warning."

"Thanks," Rachel sneered. "I'm sure you'll receive Teacher of the Year in no time."

Ignoring her sarcasm, Figgins pointed surreptitiously to the door. The brunette and dancer shuffled out, and saw a janitor cleaning up Rachel's locker.

"This sucks," Mike commented. "I'm thinking about quitting the team now."

"You should. You're better than they are."

Grinning, Mike took off his jacket, proudly showing off his NASA t-shirt and placing a pair of glasses on his face. Rachel giggled.

"Don't you look...nerdy."

"Better than looking like a jerk," Mike laughed. "Let's go. We should skip class and then head to glee."

"That sounds like the best idea of I've heard in awhile."

* * *

When glee rolled around, Mr. Schue walked into the choir room to find Finn sitting off to the right with Matt (who was apathetic to anything and everything), Puck in the dead center of all the seating (supportive of what he deemed a fellow Jew but didn't want to piss off his best friend), while everyone else—Rachel, Mike, Quinn, Santana, Brittany, Tina, Artie, Mercedes, and Kurt, were on the left (staunchly on Rachel's side). Raising an eyebrow, Santana took it upon herself to explain what had occured.

"Finnessa and his goons threw food at Rachel and Mike, and Figgins didn't bat an eye. Mike quit football in protest," Santana paused, eyeing Mike, "and became an Asian nerd in the process."

"I'm still a cool Asian," Mike said, sulking. "Dumb Plastic."

"I'm the greatest person you'll ever meet," Brittany declared brightly into the _Mean Girls_ banter, beaming. Santana snickered.

"I don't understand anything you three are talking about," Rachel whispered to Mike, who promised to explain later.

"Finn, why would you do that?" Mr. Schue questioned.

"Because he's mentally deficient," Rachel offered promptly.

Finn glowered at her.

"Because he's easily swayed by peer pressure," Quinn added, a slightly kinder take on the circumstances. "Which doesn't excuse his actions, mind you," she amended.

"Mr. Schue, I'll be the better person and graciously ignore Finn's bullying in favor of remaining in glee," Rachel decided. "You need my vocals and a twelfth member."

"...okay," Mr. Schue replied slowly at her proclamation, and pulled out a pile of sheet music. "Let's go over our newest song as a group..."

As Mr. Schue passed out the paper to the club, Rachel caught sight of another pamphlet in Mike's bag, blaring the title, _They Walk Among Us._

"Interesting," Rachel whispered. Mike grinned.

"I'll tell you all about aliens and their evil plans to take over Earth and conquer the universe."

Rachel suppressed a nervous laugh—Mike's thought made her think instantly of the Loric/Mogadorian siege—and remained calm. "Let's hear a few."


	4. Sobriety

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Hey! Thanks for the awesome reviews! I saw IAN4 the other day, and wow, it was amazing. I wanted to update quicker, but procrastination won out.**

**I also wanted to mention that my Number Six will be OOC. Just letting you know now. Enjoy!**

* * *

Listening to Mike ramble about alien conspiracies during glee practice was extremely amusing for Rachel, to be honest. In addition to her indulgence into the human sect of Broadway, she had always taken an interest in media depicting extra-terrestrials. It was fascinating—humans could either design aliens to be savage, bloodthirsty beasts with minds comparable to the next predator, or, sometimes, characterize aliens into sophisticated beings, always curious of Earth's habitants who then eventually decide to colonize the planet and enslave humans. Later, always later, the humans would scrape together a plan, finding a weakness in the foreigners and taking back what's theirs.

Sometimes, it made Rachel want to laugh. Loudly.

What if one time, the humans _couldn't_ save themselves? What if the plan failed? Miserably? The planet would be lost, brutally destroyed, by a species too superior to defeat.

Mogadore was far more advanced than Earth, but less so than Lorien. However, Mogadorians _could_ vaporize her new home if they tried.

_They must want to_, the brunette mused. Besides tracking her and her cohorts down—that was too simple. A new planet to conquer would be a perfect ulterior motive.

She'd have to tell Leroy about her theory, but conveniently leave out her little 'observation' habit. He'd probably go off into a tangent about her making their secret obvious.

"...so, _that's_ why aliens like to abduct us," Mike declared, inhaling a breath for the first time since he'd started talking, and Rachel blinked.

"I'm sorry, I lost my train of thought. What did you say?"

"I said aliens like to abduct us because they need to study our patterns," Mike repeated. "It happens all the time."

"Why?" Rachel questioned.

"So they know how to defeat us. Armageddon," Mike told her seriously, "is a battle of weaknesses. If they know ours, the war is easy to win. Toss up, really."

"But why Earth?" Rachel asked, already knowing the answer. "Why _this_ planet?"

"I don't know," Mike replied honestly. "That's the million dollar question, isn't it? Something about Earth is special to everyone else."

_Agreed_, Rachel thought.

Mogadore was twice as big as Lorien, but Earth was five times the size of Mogadore, offering a surplus of resources, land, and slaves, if they desired it. That completely solidified her hypothesis—in addition to killing Rachel and the other five teenagers for insurance purposes, the Mogadorians possibly wanted Earth was a new base. Great.

Leroy would definitely need to know this, if he didn't already.

"Rachel?" Mr. Schue called, beckoning her to the front of the room. "Let's try a duet with our new leads."

"Shit," Mike muttered, almost to himself as Quinn snorted. "Does he have a death wish?"

"I'd prefer not to," Rachel countered, eyeing Finn disdainfully. "I'd rather only work with him when the situation demands it, like Sectionals."

"This is the situation, and I'm demanding it," Mr. Schue ordered patiently. "We need to hash this song out."

"Finn's a bully," Rachel insisted. "If he can't fix his attitude, I'm sorry, but I refuse to work with him."

"Rachel, that's not—"

"Mr. Schuester, I hope you aren't as oblivious as you look. The _real_ situation is that Finn and his friends have picked me as a target," the brunette interrupted coolly. "I can't work with someone who continues to make my life difficult. You need me in this group, because, let's be honest...I don't see a line waiting to join. I'm your twelfth member, and unlike the rest of the club, I'm not as invested in it. Who says I won't leave? Now, if Finn doesn't grow a brain and be nicer to me, I won't be singing with him, _ever_."

Santana met Rachel's eyes and gave her an approving smirk; Artie nodded agreeably; Kurt and Mercedes raised their eyebrows; Quinn snickered; Finn just looked irritated.

"That's a hard bargain," Mr. Schue said at last.

"It's a fair one, considering that you have double standards," Rachel pointed out. "You mentor Finn the most, yet he's just as bad as the other boys on the football team."

"Finn, I'll have to agree," Mr. Schue admitted, grudgingly accepting defeat. "Stop targeting Rachel. This should be a no-bully zone. You should be friends."

"I can't stop the other guys," Finn mumbled. "I'll get slushied too."

"Spineless wimp," Quinn coughed, and Santana chuckled. Finn scowled.

"I'm going to ignore that," the quarterback decided. "Like I ignore you when you talk about not having any feelings for me. They don't just go away like that."

"Sweet Jesus," Mercedes complained. "I've heard this more than I need to, and it's not even my relationship. I should know Chuck and Blair's issues, not Quinn and Finn's."

"Who's Chuck and Blair?" Brittany wondered doubtfully as she threw a suspicious glance at the door. "New students?"

"Give it up, dude," Puck groaned, ignoring Brittany's interruption. "She's done with you."

"Yeah, no thanks to you."

"Hey, hey, you said we were cool," Puck demanded. "I thought—"

"Whatever, I'm fine," Finn conceded dismissively, and half-turned in Rachel's direction. "Sorry."

"I expect a real apology," Rachel huffed, crossing her arms. "That was absurdly pathetic, just like you."

"Fuck off!" Finn snapped. "You don't know me!"

"Finn, stop," Mr. Schuester intervened, exasperated. "That was uncalled for. Let's try something different...Puck?"

* * *

"You totally called Mr. Schue out," Quinn smiled as the room was emptying. "No one ever does, except Santana."

"I had to. Teachers and their bias aren't code for everyone else to follow," Rachel shrugged. "I was positive Mr. Schue would listen—I'm the deciding vote for Sectionals."

"Wield your power well, young padawan," the blonde advised teasingly. "It's a lot of responsibility."

"I'll do my best," Rachel joked.

"Listen, I was planning a party for the whole club tomorrow night," Quinn hedged. "Do you want to come?"

"I'll have to ask my dad," Rachel lied, fidgeting. "He's really...overprotective."

"No problem," Quinn acquiesced with a small smile, moving to the door, "you have my number. I'll see you later, Rachel."

Rachel searched for her cell phone when she was alone, and dialed Leroy's number.

"Hi. So, I have this new theory. I'll explain on the way."

* * *

"Makes sense," Leroy agreed, setting the Chest on the coffee table. "I don't see why not. It is in Mogadorian nature to destroy, and they don't usually like to colonize."

"What training are we doing today?" Rachel questioned as she sat down, abandoning her idea for the time being. "Opening the Chest?"

"Yes, finally. I thought our immature spat was over, so..."

Rachel stuck out her tongue, and Leroy chuckled.

"Do you want to open it or not?"

"Patience is _not _a virtue I managed to pick up since we've lived here."

"Pity. You should work on that. Well, let's begin."

The wooden grooves engraved on the box, ancient and forbidding, felt slightly warm under Rachel's touch as she grazed it with her fingertips, curious.

"This can only be opened by our consent, together. If I die, you'll be the owner, and it will open at your consent only, and that's also if you've received your first Legacy."

"What's in it?"

"Your Inheritance," Leroy answered. "Every Garde is given one at birth for their Cêpan to use when the Garde is coming into their Legacies."

"You're starting to sound a little redundant," Rachel grumbled. "Is there a point to this diatribe?"

"Patience, Rachel," Leroy insisted. "Place your hand on that side."

Rachel rested her palm flat against a side, as Leroy did the same on the other. Not two seconds passed when Rachel heard a distinct clunk and the lock shifted, unsealed.

"That's awesome," Rachel grinned.

"It's protected by a Loric charm," Leroy explained, pulling the Chest across the table. "Entirely unbreakable. If you drove a steamroller over it, there'd be no trace of a dent."

Rachel tried to peer inside, only to scowl when Leroy gestured for her to go to the couch. Muttering mutinously about stubborn guardians, she sat, cross-legged and silent.

"There are things inside you aren't ready for," Leroy elaborated firmly at the sight of Rachel's pouting. "Here, hold this."

In his outstretched palm was a crystal, the surface a deep, mysterious blue and about six inches long, resembling a stalagmite, but perfectly proportional, like a finely cut diamond or jem. As Rachel let her fingers curl around the treasure, the very center of it began to swirl, almost like cigarette smoke. Beneath the azure veneer, the grayish gas continued to churn, and suddenly, with an almost audible snap, Rachel's hands started to glow, far brighter than she'd ever seen before. Under her shirt, the pendant depicting her Loric name, emitted a burst of heat, tickling her skin with warmth. The thought of harnessing her own ability, a defense mechanism, made Rachel beam.

"That's awesome," Rachel repeated delightedly, eyeing her gleaming hands and the odd smoke still spinning in circles beneath the glassy surface. "What is it?"

"It's a tool that will help develop your Legacy," Leroy clarified. "We'll start strengthening your Lumen with this. Would you like to try now?"

"Of course," Rachel insisted. "I've only been waiting my whole life!"

"Okay, but you'll have to trust me implicitly. Understand?"

Rachel nodded eagerly.

* * *

Not twenty minutes later, her eagerness diminished into anxiety, and she tried to remain calm for Leroy's sake. Lying on her back on the coffee table, she bit her lip.

"The fire won't hurt you, Rachel, I promise," Leroy assured her. "It'll just be burning beneath you and I'll use the crystal to build up your resistance."

"Okay..."

"Keep your eyes closed, and make sure your breathing is slow and steady," Leroy's voice became soothing, almost tranquil. "Just relax."

Rachel complied, as Leroy pressed the crystal to her motionless wrist. There was a burn, not too bad—it was only slightly uncomfortable, but she didn't pull her hand away.

"Relax and let your mind calm down, Rachel," Leroy ordered. "Drift and go where you need to..."

As per instruction, Rachel let her mind go blank and dark, like her vision, and gradually, the current noises of Lima, Ohio—crackling flames, Elphaba's quiet breaths in the corner, and cars in the distance—faded, and new surroundings assault her senses. A potent, earthy smell of a forest was the first, followed by the mixed noises of bird calls and trees rustling, and at last, when she opened her eyes, she wasn't in Lima anymore. Instead, she was overlooking a vast region of vibrantly green treetops, reminding her vaguely of television specials on the Discovery Channel. The sun was high and bright, beating down on her like sultriness of summer, but was a far bigger star than Earth's Sun. Examining the ground below, Rachel could see rivers stretching off into the horizon, sparkling and lovely, while several canyons and glens littered the terrain.

Stranger yet, animals, both recognizable and obscure, stooped to drink from the rivers, and Rachel's eyes narrowed as she stared at them. They were odd combinations of organisms, like someone had picked random and obvious traits of different species and threw them together, creating hundreds of new blends. Being on Earth for so long, she'd forgotten what animals here looked like. Casting another glance at the brilliant horizon, she knew she was on Lorien, or, the Lorien of her memory. It was in its prime, beautiful and stunning with a scenery that made Rachel think of one of Earth's religions, Christianity, and their image of the glorious Garden of Eden. Similar, but not.

Before the brunette could move to explore, the memory blurred into a hazy fog of gray, and she opened her eyes, blinking her confusion away.

"I think that's enough for today," Leroy observed, satisfied. "The resistance has spread to just past your elbows. We'll need to work more on that tomorrow."

"I saw Lorien," Rachel remarked quietly, noticing the glow in her hands had faded. "I couldn't remember how pretty it was."

"I know. That's been known to happen, seeing Lorien like that. The crystal affects your Legacy, which is in turn, affected by your emotions..."

"...and emotions stem from memories and experiences," Rachel concluded. "But I was like, about to fly through the air. Like a superhero."

Leroy shrugged. "Your memories aren't entirely your own. The crystal, also attached to you, is influenced by Lorien's core."

"And it is showing me my memories from a different perspective? Why?"

"To show you what you're fighting for. You and the others are, as much as I regret to say it, a dying race. Preserving the beauty you saw is our last hope."

"I'd still fight for it," Rachel murmured. "Because we were born into it."

"Sometimes, you need a little incentive," Leroy explained. "Anyway, this resistance training will prelude physical training."

"I'll be learning karate and stuff?" Rachel questioned. "Judo...boxing?"

"Yes. Faster and with less time than humans have, but you'll pick it up quickly, along with a few other things," Leroy replied. "By the way, how was school today?"

"I almost got paired with one of my main bullies for a duet," the brunette scoffed. "He and his friends throw slushies in my face daily."

"Slushies?" Leroy repeated, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, that drink you can buy from 7-Eleven. It's practically been perfected into an art form at McKinley."

"I can understand that," Leroy acquiesced. "Human boys are incredibly easy to manipulate. Once someone starts, they all join in."

"Like a colony of lemmings," Rachel sneered. "It's pathetic."

"Well, don't let them get you down. You have the knowledge that you can actually beat them all up without breaking a sweat."

"And you won't let me, obviously," Rachel muttered. "For the love of Pittacus Lore, I have to pretend to be a defenseless human! This sucks!"

"Exactly," Leroy nodded unsympathetically, and placed the crystal back in the Chest, shutting the lid with a quiet _clamp_.

Rachel listened—momentarily defeated—to the clicking of the mechanism until the Chest was completely locked again, before preparing her inquiry. "Leroy?"

"Yes?"

"My friend, Quinn...from glee club? She invited me to a party on Friday, and I—"

"Who's going?" Leroy interrupted, switching right into concerned-parent mode. Rachel managed to suppress an eye roll.

"Just the glee club, I think," she replied. "Quinn isn't the type to have a massive blowout with the entire school. Not anymore, I suppose."

"Okay," Leroy agreed. "But, you have to call me every two hours to check in, just in case."

"That's it?" Rachel exclaimed. "No argument, no complaining, no yelling?"

"No. And I'll tell you why I'm letting you go so easily," her Cêpan laughed, "because you can't get drunk."

"Why not?" Rachel demanded. "I can't have fun like normal kids? I can't share a human experience with my new friends?"

"No, that's not it. Alcohol doesn't affect us, Rachel."

"Are you serious?" The brunette whined. "Alcohol won't work on me? Ever? That's stupid."

"I'm very sorry. So, yes, I hope you enjoy your sober party. Drive safely."

Rachel wasn't amused, and her storm out from Leroy's laughter and something suspiciously resembling snorts from Elphaba Brice was _totally_ justified. Really, it was.

* * *

"I'm glad you could make it," Quinn greeted her on Friday night after glee practice, taking Rachel's jacket and hanging it up on a rack. "Everyone's downstairs."

"Anyone buzzed yet?" Rachel wondered.

"No, but Santana and Puck are well on their way," the blonde muttered. "They're playing games already."

"What kind of games?" Rachel asked.

Quinn's reply was drowned out by a shriek from Brittany, who bounded over and pulled Rachel into a hug, spinning her in a circle.

"Rachel's here!" Brittany crowed excitedly. "I told you, San! You owe me five bucks!"

"You actually bet that I'd come here or not?" Rachel queried.

Santana snickered. "Of course. You don't look like the partying type to me."

Rachel sat down between Brittany and Quinn on the floor in the circle of glee members as Mike offered a sloppy wave to Rachel, who laughed.

"Have a beer, Rachel," Puck leered, clearly past buzzed and leaning to drunk. "Let that all that craziness out."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Noah," Rachel apologized as sincerely as possible, "I'm not drinking tonight."

_Because I can't_, the brunette added silently. _Because my body's more evolved than yours—eons more evolved—and alcohol has absolutely no effect on Lorics_.

"That's a relief," Quinn smiled at the brunette, "I'm not drinking either."

"Dragging down the party," Kurt singsonged. "You two should relax a little."

"Kurt," Quinn acknowledged pleasantly, "the last time I drank, I got pregnant. No thank you."

"Fine," the boy grumbled. "Merely a suggestion."

"Let's play Quarters," Santana demanded suddenly. "Puckerman? Britts? Rutherford?"

"Should be fun," Rachel murmured to Quinn as the group crowded around a table, and cheers were already breaking out in the basement.

"Always is," Quinn grinned. "Wait and see."

* * *

"...and then Ms. Pillsbury called Animal Control and they took the bird from my locker," Brittany was saying sadly to no one in particular. "I miss Woodstock."

"Brittany must be the weepy, hysterical drunk," Quinn whispered conspiratorially to Rachel, who grinned.

"I want my bird back!" Brittany wailed, words slurring together as her voice got louder. "I want Woodstock back! WOODSTOCK!"

"Mhmm, points for the weepy drunk. Let's see," Quinn continued quietly, as she and Rachel sat in the corner, nursing sodas, "Mercedes and Tina are the happy girl drunks."

Mercedes and Tina, currently laughing uproariously at Puck wearing Artie's glasses, inhaled for breath, looked at each other, and burst into uncontrollable giggles again.

"What's Finn?"

Quinn's eyes narrowed, examining her ex-boyfriend closely, sitting Indian-style on the floor, all the way across the room. "He's what I like to call a post-drunk."

"Why?"

Finn stared blankly at the wall, and several minutes later, shook his head and attempted to stand up, only to fall down and resume his staring, and repeat himself.

"He doesn't actually think he's drunk, and he doesn't talk much. When he tries to get up, he falls, becoming slow and unmotivated until the cycle happens again."

Rachel muffled a laugh and jerked a thumb at Mike and Puck. "How 'bout them?"

"Angry drunks. See how they're arguing about the rules of beer pong while clearly out of it? Dead giveaway," Quinn explained with a giggle.

"Kurt and Matt?"

"Kurt, Matt, the sleepy drunks. Lucky and unlucky. They're out for the count until the alcohol wears off, leaving them prey to mischief from other partygoers."

"What about Santana over there?" Rachel inquired, snickering as the Latina was dancing around without her shirt, a frenzied Brittany following her, still sobbing.

Quinn wrinkled her nose. "Girl That Turns into A Stripper Drunk."

"That's probably the most creative one of the night," Rachel laughed. "Lastly...Artie?"

Artie was spinning dangerously in his wheelchair, squinting helplessly into a blurry world without his glasses and calling out for an oblivious, still cackling Tina.

"Needy boy drunk," the blonde said at last. "I'm surprised. Usually that's for girls only. Hmm."

"Are all of your parties like this?" Rachel questioned interestedly.

"Nah, we just haven't all hung out like this in awhile, they're happy," Quinn answered, smiling. "I'm glad you came too."

"It's my first party," Rachel admitted, embarrassed. "I've never actually been invited to one before."

"First time for everything," Quinn offered, and clambered to her feet, pulling Rachel up with her. "Do you want to take a break from all this and go upstairs?"

"Sure," Rachel smiled shyly, and let Quinn tug her up the stairs.

* * *

"Here's my room," Quinn pointed out, leading the brunette inside and sitting down on her desk chair. Rachel remained standing, taking in everything slowly.

Quinn's bedroom walls were littered with photographs, covering every inch of what Rachel suspected to be pink wallpaper from childhood. Macros, landscapes, portraits, black and whites...Quinn had everything interesting there was to do with a camera, depicted in at least two hundred photos, ranging from eight by tens to four by fives taped neatly in disorganized rows. Books covered a messy bed, and Rachel spied titles varying from _Alice in Wonderland_ to _The Great Gatsby_, among instruction manuals for cameras. Under a window, a table was laden with about a dozen cameras, some 35mm and some digital, and even a camera reminiscent of the early twentieth century was nestled with the others. On another wall beside an open closest and untidy dresser was a large map of the world, with small, red tacks scattered randomly across the paper.

"Wow," Rachel murmured finally. "Just...wow."

"I'm terribly messy," Quinn admitted self-deprecatingly. "Bad habit. Photography's one of those hobbies I got into to fill my time without Cheerios."

"You're an amazing photographer, Quinn," Rachel announced sincerely, examining a photo of an older blonde couple, sitting together on a beach, both reading a newspaper.

"That's my mom, Judy, and my dad, Russell," Quinn said, making Rachel jump; she hadn't realized the other girl was nearby. "I took that in summer before school started."

"Where are they?"

"In the picture? Boca Raton, Florida. Tonight, they're at their monthly poker game with my aunt and uncle in Columbus."

"They don't mind that you're throwing a party?" Rachel wondered.

"No, they trust me enough to not make the same mistake," Quinn answered. "It's part of their constant apology."

"Apology?" Rachel repeated curiously.

Quinn gestured for her to sit, and both blonde and brunette sat down, leaning against the frame of Quinn's bed. "Remember how I told you about the baby?"

"Yes."

"Well, at first, they freaked out; what parent wouldn't? My parents are strictly, _strictly,_ Christian, and when I 'sinned' it was extremely shocking to them. They'd raised me like my sister, Frannie, to be absolutely perfect. Finn would by my perfect husband—we'd be married out of high school, have three blonde kids, a dog, and move into a house with a picket fence. I'd be a homemaker, and Finn would go into business like my dad and Frannie's husband before him. That's what they envisioned, another family like theirs," Quinn murmured. "Having Beth was like a slap in the face, and although it took a lot of work for my mother, my dad eventually let me move back in here."

"Back in?"

"He kicked me out," Quinn elaborated. "No daughter of his would shame the Fabray name with such a scandal."

"That's not fair," Rachel protested indignantly. "It was a mistake!"

"Rachel, I'm not done yet," Quinn interjected, amused. "Anyway, I moved back in during my third trimester—I'd been staying with Brittany. My mom didn't stop talking to me, paid for all of my medical bills, called me every other day...she was working both sides. My dad wouldn't let up until she threatened a divorce, and I moved back into my room the next day. You might think my dad was being selfish—maybe. But he'd been raised to adhere to his beliefs unflinchingly, even if his own family betrayed him. But when I gave the baby up, he sat me down one night, and I think he spent at least an hour apologizing. He said he wasn't being a good father, and that he shouldn't have lost his temper. We both agreed to sharing a pride issue, and things were a little rocky afterwards. He told my mother he'd stop drinking and hasn't had any since then."

Quinn paused, leveling a quick, pacifying smile at Rachel, who blushed lightly in response.

"My dad and I aren't the same, but when I broke up with Finn and put myself back together again, we repaired our relationship. It's not perfect, but it's okay."

"An hour apologizing," Rachel mused. "Did he repeat himself?"

"Surprisingly, no," Quinn laughed. "It was all completely original. I did forgive him, though. He's trying. Mom was so excited, having her family back together."

"What about Beth? Do you ever talk about her?"

"With Mom I do," Quinn admitted. "With my dad, it's easier stuff, like college plans."

"Where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere but here," the blonde laughed. "I can't wait to get out of Lima. That map is full of places I'd like to travel to someday."

"Why?" Rachel asked. "Your family's here—why leave them?"

"I've been here my whole life. I want to get out, spread my wings a little. I'm getting cabin fever just hanging around Ohio. I want to see big cities and busy streets."

"Quinn, I've been to a lot of places," Rachel began, but Quinn interrupted her.

"You don't need to give me the no-place-like-home speech, Rachel. I've heard it, multiple times."

"I understand. What I meant was, a place is only as good as the people you know in it," the brunette said quietly. "Living somewhere new is exciting, but can be lonely."

Quinn's lips curved into a little smile as she listened to a old topic with a new, fresher opinion.

"My father and I, moving around all the time across the country...I haven't had a chance to really make roots and settle down or make a few friends, at least for awhile. But here...Lima," Rachel amended, smiling slightly at the thought, "I like it. Of all the homes I've lived in and the places I've been to, I think this is a pretty good place."

Quinn's eyes were piercing all of a sudden—_was it something I said?_ Rachel wondered. _Offensive, perhaps?_ Maybe she should move...wait, Quinn was moving slightly—slowly—or was Rachel imagining it? _Quinn was very beautiful up close_, Rachel observed dreamily, her eyes closing of their own accord when Quinn's did. She should just—

"What is that?" Quinn asked, and Rachel's eyes snapped open, finding Quinn peering intently out of her window. Praying she hadn't made an idiot of herself, Rachel sighed.

"Is something out there?" Rachel questioned, as Quinn sidled over to let her see. A jumping shape could just barely be seen from the cluster of trees, but Rachel saw it.

"Elphaba," the brunette huffed, exasperated. "Ugh, stupid dog."

"That's your dog?" Quinn grinned. "And you named her _Elphaba_?"

"Of course," Rachel insisted, extremely thankful the anticipated awkwardness between them wasn't present. "She pays tribute to two important figures of Broadway—"

Before she could finish, a familiar tune of Rockwell floated from her phone, making Quinn laugh loudly.

_"...And I always feel like, somebody's watching me..."_

"Oh my God," Rachel growled, mortified, flipping open her phone, much to Quinn's amusement. "L—Dad! Why would you make _this_ my ringtone? Ooh, that's hilarious...and—okay, yeah. I forgot to call you...every two hours, though? I'm not twelve! Oh, right, and you sent the _dog_ to come and get me? How mature. Fine...bye."

Closing her phone and jamming it in her pocket, Rachel gave a half-shrug. "I have to go. L—my dad's being a jerk."

"At least let me drive you," Quinn urged as they descended the stairs to the front door. "You shouldn't be walking at night."

"I won't be alone, I've got Elphaba," Rachel smiled, whistling until the golden retriever bounded obediently from the trees and appeared at Rachel's side.

Quinn bent down to pet the dog on the snout, and Rachel snickered at the dog's wild tail wagging, almost contentedly.

"She's fearless," Rachel said seriously. "We'll be okay. And you've got a party to supervise."

"If you're sure..." Quinn trailed off uncertainly but her eyes brightened suddenly. "Hold on a sec!"

The blonde disappeared up the stairs onto the second floor and Rachel frowned at Elphaba, silently promising revenge on Leroy. The dog whimpered, as if it understood.

"Here," Quinn puffed, placing a small camera in Rachel's hands, managing a winded smile, "I want to see what you can do."

"Really?" Rachel asked, flashing a grin. "I've never really thought about looking at the world through a photographer's eyes."

"Once you do, it's impossible to turn it off," Quinn chuckled. "Try it out. Surprise me."

"Thanks for having me, Quinn. I had a great time," Rachel offered, slinging her jacket over her shoulders and pocketing the camera.

"No problem. We can hangout again soon—just the two of us," Quinn countered warmly, and unexpectedly, placed a kiss on Rachel's cheek, eyes dancing with mirth.

"O-okay," Rachel stammered, turning red, and managed to reply a goodbye and trudge on to the sidewalk, Elphaba Brice trotting happily beside her.

"Best night ever," the brunette murmured dazedly to herself, a smile lingering her lips for the rest of the walk home.

* * *

**All 'drunk types' were borrowed from UrbanDictionary and _Glee's_ "Blame It on the Alcohol". Sorry if this chapter seems rushed.**

**Also, for those who answered yes to me adapting movies into Faberry ones, would anyone object to television shows or books? PM if you like/have time.**

**Thanks for your time, and I hope you enjoyed!**


	5. Remember

**Title**: Four

**Author**: animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings**: Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer**: Don't own Glee, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Hi! Here's chapter five, laying out few flashbacks. Everyone excited for _Glee_? Of course you are. Enjoy!**

* * *

She was dreaming again. Her mind, blank and listless during glee practice, allowed an outward appearance of thinking, almost in a reverie, while graphic visions, similar to a film, played behind her eyes. Leroy's training, the night after the party and the days following it, only strengthened the influx of memories, along with the quantity. Earlier today, in Home Economics, she'd touched a measuring cup and recalled the image of her grandmother's laughter in the kitchen, just days before the Mogadorian invasion.

She's been dreaming of Number Two lately. Rachel assumed the visions were occurring backwards. First Three, then Two, then One. She believed them to be warnings.

Maybe she'll learn what the first three teenagers did wrong. Stayed out in the open too long, were too obvious, or, worse, didn't have enough training to defend themselves.

Rachel would be better. She decided on the idea when she was thirteen, just after Three's death_. _She'd learn how to survive. She'd allow Five a long wait before their turn.

As Mr. Schue droned on about Sectionals and sticking together to ignore Sue Sylvester's schemes, Rachel's had mind slipped into a memory, sending her to England.

* * *

_She walked slowly, hands in her pockets, admiring her surroundings; scenic and pretty. A gentle rain began, but the shoppers around, long used to it, ignored the weather and continued on. Her Cêpan, lips pursued in thought, seemed uncomfortable. She didn't mind—her __Cêpan always acted that way; half-maternal and half-professional, poised to defend them both with a sword hidden in her coat. Always concerned for their safety, endlessly repeating that they must remain unnoticed, must act normal, must act just like everyone else. Don't be a star, be a wallflower. Don't express an opinion during school lectures, keep to yourself. Don't make friends, become invisible. _

___Be there, but don't be there, her ____Cêpan suggested. Make yourself into a nonentity...make others forget you. _

___She wrinkled her nose. No friends? She may be an alien, but she didn't like being a social pariah. Pariahs were those who wanted to hide. She didn't._

___She caught her reflection in a store window__—green eyes resembling emeralds, a freckled, pale face, and wavy hair of a fiery red. Most humans mistook her for an Irish girl._

_____If they only knew. Her culture predated the Irish, predated Earth's oldest languages and customs. Lorics had helped shape Earth, but remained pointedly anonymous._

_____Hey, Alexander Graham Bell didn't engineer the telephone on his own____________—_Loric whispers in his ear, as he sat, half-asleep, planted the idea and made 'his' invention famous.

_____"We should go," her ____Cêpan urged. "I don't like this."_

_________"We're shopping, Julianne," she insisted. "I need a new jumper."_

_________"We're out in the open, Katherine," Julianne snapped, stressing her human alias and grasping the fourteen-year-old by the wrist. "You've become complacent."_

_________"One was in Malaysia, halfway across the world," she hissed, snatching her arm away. "I'm completely safe."_

_________"You're being foolish," Julianne whispered. "Their army exceeds us, maybe a hundred times over. This excursion__—"_

___________"__—allows me to be normal, for once," Two snapped. "We aren't on Lorien anymore. When on Earth, act as the humans do!"_

_____________"You're acting selfish," Julianne reproached, her expression forming a disappointed frown. "The entire Garde, heavens, the entire planet, died for the nine of you, just to escape! There's eight left and you decide now to act like a spoiled human who isn't getting her way? We need to preserve Lorien's traditions and your life, and all you care about," the __________Cêpan concluded with an acerbic, cold scowl, "is buying a new jumper. You're next in line to die, Katherine, and you're only worrying about your clothes!"_

_______________________Two hung her head in shame and embarrassment, cheeks tinged pink. "I didn't____________—I'm sorry, Julianne. I wasn't thinking. You're right, as usual."_

___________________________________"A moment of single-mindedness is fine, once and awhile," Julianne acquiesced, ruffling Two's hair. "We can spare a few more minutes. What were you planning to buy?"_

___________________________________

* * *

_

"Rachel."

"Rachel?"

"Hey, Smurfette!"

Rachel blinked, feeling her eyes sharpen and focus completely as she found the entire club, including Mr. Schue, staring at her. "What? I must've...spaced out."

"Do you have any song ideas for Sectionals? Everyone else contributed; it's only fair for your opinions to be heard as well," the director offered.

Rachel paused, running an inventory of the Broadway songs she knew by heart. "_No One Mourns the Wicked_?"

"Lame," Santana objected. "I'm sendin' that suggestion straight back up the yellow brick road. Sorry."

Puck nodded when no one else reacted, slightly apologetically, in agreement.

"Santana, respect someone else's opinion besides your own. Anything else, Rachel?"

"_Seasons of Love._"

"Overdone!" Santana protested vehemently, looking to the ceiling for patience and to the others for support, while Kurt brightened.

"Can we?" Kurt pleaded. "She's a Broadway aficionado, just like me, Mr. Schuester. We can work together to find something suitable and totally amazing for Sectionals."

"Do you listen to anything else, New Girl?" Santana questioned.

"Maybe she's been living under a rock," Brittany mused. "My beetle, Jonathan, loves to hide under rocks. I always have to tell him what's been going on."

"No, I don't," Rachel answered honestly. Mixed reactions occurred simultaneously: Mr. Schue raised his eyebrows, Quinn smiled (affectionately), Santana gasped, Mercedes shook her head (as if it was a crime against humanity), Kurt kept his grin, Finn rolled his eyes, Matt and Mike shrugged, Puck laughed, Artie smacked his own forehead, Brittany looked unsurprised, and Tina tried to not look as perturbed as everyone else did. Rachel didn't know how to explain this one_, _but she and Leroy had moved around often, and it wasn't like she actually owned an iPod, let alone know artists that other teenagers liked. Her music was limited___________—_Broadway could only offer so much variety.

"This is priority one," Mercedes announced. "We teach Rachel 'Head in the Sand' Berry a little about other music in the world or she doesn't get an opinion for Sectionals."

"I don't know," Mr. Schue disagreed. "You shouldn't push your thoughts onto Rachel. Maybe she doesn't like contemporary music. It's her choice."

"Maybe she's stuck in medieval times," Brittany urged. "Kurt, too. Nobody from our time listens to that stuff."

Finn looked close to agreeing with that one—it did sound right.

"That doesn't make sense, Britt," Quinn countered. "Maybe we shouldn't talk about Rachel like she isn't here and instead ask her what she wants to do."

The eyes all found Rachel again, who was engrossed in overanalyzing her latest vision, gaze glazed over.

"Rachel?" Quinn queried. "What do you think?"

"Huh? Oh...um, whatever. Maybe all of you choose your favorite genre of music and sing it to me, so I'll become acquainted with music that everyone else enjoys."

"Definitely still in olden days," Brittany nodded. "She probably doesn't even know how to turn on a computer. I still don't."

"Living under that rock for way, _way,_ too long," Santana added, scrutinizing Rachel's features. "At least she had a dictionary to keep herself busy."

"May I be excused?" Rachel requested politely, and Mr. Schue nodded, and the brunette left her chair, carefully shutting the door behind her.

"Something I said?" Santana questioned, innocent, as her neighbors grimaced and rolled their eyes, including Mr. Schuester.

* * *

_"It's lovely," Two beamed, eyeing herself in the mirror, showing off a sweater that matched her eyes. "May I have it, Julianne? Please?"_

_"If you must," her Cêpan allowed, lowering her voice to a whisper as the store clerk rang in the purchase, "but you're incredibly fortunate to know how wealthy we are."_

_"Of course," Two chirped. "All those gems from Lorien, right?"_

_"Yes. All in a bank in the Cayman Islands, along with hundred of millions in human currency," Julianne admitted. "We'll never be penniless...one less thing to worry about."_

_They left the store, the bag dangling from Two's left hand, as a few boys ambled past, sniggering and whispering._

_"Predictable human males," Julianne sighed, squinting a little as she glanced at the sky, almost derisively. Two giggled._

_"They like me, is that so bad?"_

_"You know Lorics love differently than humans, Katherine."_

_"Of course I—"_

_Two stopped short, nearly slamming into Julianne's back, who stood motionless on the sidewalk, jaw set and her spine rigid. Two's heart seemed to plummet. No. Not here._

_"Katherine," Julianne murmured, gaze fixed on a trio approaching at the end of the street, wearing black trenchcoats and hats with low brims, hiding their colorless faces._

_"What should we do?" Two whispered, glancing around. Three Mogadorians straight ahead, two from the east, and one, far behind them and pushing through the crowd. _

_They'd be trapped like rats._

_"You are going to run," Julianna ordered calmly, eyes flashing. "I'll hold them off."_

_"What about the Chest?" Two asked desperately. "I can't leave it."_

_"In ten seconds, you'll run as fast as you can to the apartment. Find the Chest—it has everything you need inside. Then, don't wait for me, just go."_

_"I'm only fourteen," Two protested, tears running down her cheeks as the six Mogadorians wandered closer, taking their time. "I can't do this by myself. Not without you."_

_"You have to, Katherine. I can't be around forever and it's my job to protect you."_

_"But I—"_

_"Your ten seconds are up! Go! Now!"_

_

* * *

_

"Asthma attack?"

_More like a mindfuck_, Rachel thought. Two's memories weighed down on her, filling her with sadness and helpless pity.

"No, just...overwhelmed," Rachel replied truthfully, as Quinn leaned against a sink. Rachel's hands, braced on another sink, flexed and she lowered them to her sides.

"We're a motley crew," Quinn shrugged, misunderstanding. "Conflicting personalities and social statuses is bound to explode. You just happened to get the brunt of it."

"You don't really like the sound of that," Rachel observed correctly, and Quinn nodded, looking slightly surprised at the brunette's perceptiveness.

"No, I don't. I like to go with the flow," Quinn admitted. "Being off Cheerios gives me that opportunity and I wouldn't change it back. That's what makes glee fun—we're supposed to forget our school lives and just have a good time. I guess Santana was in a bad mood...I'll bet she isn't getting any from Brittany or something like that."

Rachel laughed uncomfortably.

"We should head back," Quinn offered. "Feeling better?"

"Yes. On the way, you can tell me exactly what kind of music I've been missing," Rachel joked, and Quinn grinned.

"I'll make sure you don't get caught in the Billboard Top 100."

"What's a Top 100 Billboard?"

"Nevermind. Let's go," Quinn giggled, linking arms with Rachel, and they sauntered back to the choir room, smiling all the way.

* * *

"What music do you like?"

Leroy paused, mid-bite, and set down his fork, looking questioningly at his protégée. "What?"

"What kind of human music do you enjoy?" Rachel repeated. "I'd like to survey your opinion."

"I like country," Leroy shrugged, noncommittal. "It makes me think of simpler times."

"I'm supposed to know that country isn't good," Rachel muttered, examining Quinn's scribbled suggestions. "It's...'overblown and just plain annoying'."

"Right...where were you going with this?"

"Everyone in glee wants me to listen to several genres of music, because I've apparently haven't been aware to a key part of human society," Rachel dictated dryly.

"I wonder why," Leroy snickered. "My, my. Lima was a good place to settle. I hear something amusing everyday."

"What _do _you do all day?" Rachel wondered. "Besides pretend to be a writer?"

"Research, keep an eye on the Mogs, wipe anything remotely incriminating off the Internet," Leroy answered. "Forge certificates and paperwork, occasionally."

"And watch sports," Rachel added, gesturing to the television, still set on ESPN. "You're becoming a 'couch-potato' human, Leroy. Go out, do something. Have a life."

"Uh huh. Let's say the next time I'm outside, obliviously admiring the scenery, a Mogadorian infantry gets closer to us. I need to meditate and monitor their emotions."

Elphaba Brice, stretched out on the floor, whined lowly at the thought, and rolled over, trotting out of the room to inspect the yard, nose on the ground.

"Does she always do that?"

"Everyday," Leroy replied. "She sniffs around outside for awhile. Patrolling, I'll assume. She's probably protecting her territory."

"No, she's protecting us," Rachel announced, watching the dog circle the yard, and missed Leroy's amused, knowing expression.

He'd let her find out about that one on her own.

* * *

_She hadn't hesitated. When a Cêpan makes an order, they mean business. Two dropped her bag and sprinted west, shoving past adults and children old and young, not bothering to look back to listen to their protests. Several screams broke the normally quiet area, and mass panic escalated, as a lone __Cêpan made her final stand. Bobbies approached from all directions, blowing whistles and roaring for calm. Two didn't waste time; her sprints grew into near-leaps, easily nearing fifty miles an hour. She wasn't anything more than a blur of color, barely winded and ready to keep running if that's what guaranteed her safety. Julianne had told her to run—she would. She had to._

___Her necklace, bearing her name in Loric, warmed suddenly against her skin. Julianne was dead...that was the signal, a warning to other Lorics. She was all alone now._

___Could she find the others? That wasn't smart nor safe; she'd break the charm, endangering them all, yet two Loric teenagers were safer together—strength in numbers._

___She didn't want to die, at least not alone. She didn't even care that Lorien was probably lost. If running meant living on Earth, she'd take it._

___Two increased her speed. Fourteen, yes. Helpless? No. She had the muscle and the stamina to beat the best humans at anything; she could flee from the Mogs for awhile._

___She'd give them a chase, as long as it took. She only hoped Number Three was more clever; maybe staying off the grid was a better idea. _

___If only she'd listened._

___

* * *

_

"Leroy, I'm going to Mike's for a movie night," Rachel declared, buttoning her coat. "I'll text you when I get there, bye!"

Ignoring Leroy's irritated goodbye, Rachel jogged into the street, letting her pace gradually increase. Houses whipped by in blurs, and one terrified old lady and her dog.

Rachel contemplated her latest vision—Two's flight from the Mogadorians in England and the death of Julianne, the Cêpan. It made her sadder; she was witnessing Two's last moments and like Three in Kenya, was completely unable to change history. It wasn't fair. The Mogadorians were just picking them off, searching and tracking for them like it was all a big hunting party. She wished, wistfully, that a lot more Lorics had survived. There wouldn't be so much pressure or fear—maybe they'd be working together, reunited with their kin and able to relax, if only for a little while. Her stomach twisted in confusion, because when she really thought of it, if more Lorics had survived, she wouldn't be settled down, like she wanted. She wouldn't be enrolled in McKinley, participating in a glee club, nor would she have actually met Quinn.

Quinn. She lingered in Rachel's thoughts often—did friends normally think of each other so much? Or did she _like_ Quinn, remembering the competitive staredown with Finn?

She'd never thoughts of other humans that way. Mostly, they were just forgettable acquaintances, some kind, and others rude. Lima was different. It made _her_ different.

Sure, she learned Earth's ways and regularly felt annoyed with tests, disliking teachers, the usual teenager stuff. And then Quinn came along and messed everything up.

Around the blonde, she felt giddy, nervous, fidgety, hopeful, uncertain...if she wanted to be seasick, she would be. Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. Confused, confused, confused.

What _was _it about this specific girl? Rachel frowned. It didn't make sense—well, disregarding Quinn's kindness, attitude, smiles, looks...the brunette shook her head.

Still feeling annoyingly befuddled, Rachel extended her fist and rapped her knuckles against Mike's front door, and within seconds, it opened.

"Rachel, you're here!" Mike grinned. "Awesome. Everyone else just arrived. We drew a raffle and _I _got to pick the movie."

"Let me guess," Rachel smiled as her extra-terrestrial adoring friend waggled his eyebrows, "you picked an alien movie. I'll guess again—_Aliens._"

Mike placed a hand over his chest, mockingly. "A woman after my own heart. I mean, not in a romantic way. We're buds. And yes, you're right."

_Time for the fun, _Rachel thought, biting back a triumphant grin_. Inside, I'll be laughing my head off._

"Hey, guys, Rachel's here," Mike declared. "She even guessed the movie!"

"Psychic," Mercedes commented dryly. Rachel, unengaged in a conversation at the moment, sent a quick text to Leroy and shrugged her coat off, placing it on a chair.

"Figgins could guess your movie," Santana remarked, rolling her eyes. "Hell, Ms. Pillsbury could guess."

"She's the one who—" Brittany squeaked, alarmed.

"—made you give the bird to Animal Control," Rachel supplied, smiling. Quinn laughed and Rachel sat down in the open seat on the couch, just beside the amused blonde.

Mike passed out popcorn and drinks, and bent down to play the DVD. Quinn's fingers intertwined with Rachel's, making the fourth Loric teenager jump slightly.

"Sorry. This movie freaks me out," Quinn whispered.

"It's okay, I'm here," Rachel promised, smiling. "Movies like this actually make me laugh."

"Freak," Santana mumbled with a snort of disdain, as the opening titles began. "Sadist, short, psycho, psychic little freak."

Rachel rolled her eyes, and fixed her gaze on the screen, as Quinn's hand unconsciously tightened, anticipating something vicious. Rachel didn't mind a bit.

* * *

_She had passed at least a dozen neighborhoods, and no sign of the Mogadorians. She inhaled deeply, forcing air down her throat. She had to remain level-headed and alert._

_She slowed to a walk, but hurried up the path to their little apartment, smashing the locked doorknob and striding inside. Leaving their unneeded effects, Two snatched a backpack and shoved the Chest inside, adjusting the straps on her shoulders. She cast one, last long at her temporary home, teeth clenched in an effort not to cry. Making sure nothing left behind would incriminate her or give any indication that she and Julianne had lived here (except for the lease under an assumed name), Two departed._

_Her feet smacked against pavement as she continued to run, and her next destination would be the earliest transportation to the States._

_Plenty of more places to hide, and with all of her documents, she could slip into a school and hide again, until she believed she was safe. Then, she'd find the others._

_Her confidence began to rise slightly, only to diminish into nonexistence when she saw the first stranger, a black trenchcoat, and a reddish light, fixed on her chest._

_Before the lone Mogadorian could shoot, she was sprinting, and distantly heard his roar of frustration. Let him catch her now, going seventy-five miles per hour at the most. _

_If this was the end, she'd make it difficult as possible. Let the chase begin, she thought grimly. _

_

* * *

_

"Eww," Quinn murmured, her knuckles white as she gripped Rachel's hand, unable to look away. On the screen, the soldiers and Ripley, exploring the colony complex, found a collection of eggs and a slew of cocooned, massacred colonists. Rachel, unlike her wide-eyed, horrified friends, was barely containing laughter. Okay, right, _Aliens_ was mildly frightening and made several viewers incredibly nauseous, but the idea of these..._things_ devouring humans was so _ludicrous. _Aliens like that didn't exist. Well, not anymore.

"Ugh!" Santana shouted, when a cocooned colonist died grotesquely, a newborn alien emerging from the corpse. The group shuddered. Rachel blinked, unfazed.

"This movie is stupid," the brunette couldn't help but admit aloud, regretting her words immediately. _Oops._

"Rachel? I'm hurt," Mike whined. "_Aliens _really needs more than two Oscars, you know. It's freakin' awesome."

"I'm just saying, the reality of having aliens like that are slim to none," Rachel defended. _Shit. Shut your mouth, moron. Leroy would have a coronary if he—_

"And what would you know about that?" Finn asked coldly, interrupting her internal panic.

"Yeah, maybe aliens are really out there," Santana agreed. "Can it, Berry."

"Hey, hey, I'm all on the aliens bandwagon, but nobody's going to gang up on Rach," Mike announced, half-standing from his seat. "This is my house. No hating allowed."

"She's allowed an opinion, Santana," Quinn admonished sharply. "You too, Finn."

Silence settled again, aside from mutters of "Jesus" from Puck and "Eww" from Brittany, Tina, or Santana. Rachel sighed.

"It's okay," Quinn whispered, smiling brightly. "I get to pick the next one."

"What are you going to choose?" Rachel asked, turning her head, and stilled, finding Quinn too close. Drawing back slightly, she saw Quinn's smile turn teasing.

"_E.T._"

"Quinn, really?" Rachel complained. "I swear, I'll—"

"Shh!"

"Trying to watch, here!"

"Enough with the chitty chatty, ladies, and be quiet! Thanks!"

"I was actually planning to pick a Disney movie," Quinn admitted quietly when they were left alone, blushing. "Who doesn't love them?"

"Which one's your favorite?" Rachel asked, when they'd sat back on the couch and ignored the movie, as the others shrieked and swore in distaste as it continued to play.

Quinn played with Rachel's fingers, brows furrowing downward as she decided.

"_Beauty and The Beast,_" the blonde answered. "I like the idea of a girl who, first of all, actually reads, and second, isn't afraid to defend her beliefs to others. I love the main plot, too—inner beauty. The beast is ugly, abrasive, and _different_, and Belle still finds his heart...it's just hidden behind his fear of losing her because he's not totally normal."

Quinn stopped speaking, tilting her head. "Understand what I mean? The beast _is_ capable of being loved, even if he's different. It just takes someone with patience."

"Yeah," Rachel breathed, surprised, and cleared her throat. "Mine's...uh, _Hercules._"

"Good choice. Why?"

"Megaera falls in love with someone who's completely out of her world," Rachel said, nearly over-explaining herself, "and he gives up his family to stay on Earth with her."

Quinn nodded in agreement, and launched into a new topic, while Rachel felt both mollified and annoyed with herself. She'd have to be more careful with Quinn.

Someday, she knew, Quinn would say _something_ and Rachel would mess up. _If Quinn was a Loric_, Rachel decided, s_he'd be able to unravel anyone's secrets._ Effortlessly.

Rachel wondered what Quinn would think of her. Alien, powerful, and different—hiding and practically stamped with a death warrant on her forehead and killers on her tail.

_Quinn was better off believing them to be fictional_, Rachel thought. Nothing more than a bunch of special effects, freaky costumes, and nerds like Mike with crazy theories.

If only reality was that simple.

* * *

_Her legs ached, but she didn't stop, too driven to escape. She couldn't take on all of them, and it'd be better when she'd rested and planned her next move._

_Distantly, she could see Big Ben, standing like a beacon in the sky. She kept sprinting, unnoticed as anything besides a flash of color, perhaps for half a second._

_When she was complacent, relieved, like she'd finally outran them, her foot snagged on an enormous boot and she somersaulted across the ground, landing flat on her back._

_"What the—"_

_"—tripped and fell, out of nowhere—"_

_"Found you," the Mogadorian grunted, as astonished, frightened bystanders stood still or twitched, unsure of what to do. "Run, little Loric. Run."_

_Two hastily scrambled to her feet, and jogged into the crowd, dodging bodies and pushing through, looking for a rescue, someplace else to go. She'd run around for hours, yet was still found, like being tracked, an animal to hunter. Lungs screaming for air, her body heaving with exhaustion, a questioning mob signaling for the bobbies, a converging group of Mogadorians, and no where to flee, Two inhaled another breath and vaulted over the dock, diving into the River Thames and vanishing under the water._

_Instead of gulping down water and no doubt setting herself up to drown, Two felt her neck twinge, and dimly, could see the bluish lines of her veins, glowing beneath her skin. Her first Legacy, upon receiving it when she was twelve? Breathing under water. Two forced her body to sink, landing on the muddy riverbed, and started to swim._

_

* * *

_

"Thank you for having me, Mike," Rachel smiled, patting his arm when they finished hugging. "I can't wait for the next one."

"We'll be watching _Alien vs. Predator,_" Mike grinned. "But don't comment on it."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Rachel replied, waving, and walked down the lane, and sat down in Quinn's passenger seat, who waited until Rachel settled before driving off.

"I'm thinking a Disney movie night," Quinn declared. "My house. Friday."

"Deal. But we're watching mine first."

"_What_? No way!"

"Yes way! Guests have first choice," Rachel insisted. "It's common courtesy."

"Fine, fine," Quinn grumbled. "And you'll have to meet my parents. They'll love you, by the way. They even liked Finn...which was weird."

"It's nice to know strangers who decide to unconditionally care for me," Rachel quipped. "How sweet."

Quinn stuck out her tongue. "Make sure you plan a list of colleges—my dad will grill you on where and why...and oh! Show up hungry, my mom will make dinner for us."

"Friday it is," Rachel beamed. "Should I make something?"

"Cookies," Quinn grinned. "That'll make Mom adore you. I can't cook to save my life. None of my friends who show up can, either, so you'll be a rarity in her eyes."

They reached Rachel's house, where the flashing lights of the television were visible between the curtains. Rachel unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Thanks for the ride, Quinn."

"You're welcome," the blonde answered, offering a dazzling smile, and kissed Rachel on the cheek. Rachel wouldn't mind that becoming a regular occurrence.

"Bye," Rachel breathed.

"See you," Quinn replied, giving a mock-salute and goofy grin. Rachel watched her drive away, left with a giddiness in her heart and tingling on her cheek.

Practically skipping up the stairs and only giving Leroy the quickest goodbye possible, Rachel darted into her room and picked up the camera Quinn had let her borrow.

"Better time than any," the brunette murmured, still smiling. "Let's give this a spin, eh, Elphaba?"

The dog, laying on her bed, obligingly barked, tongue wagging, and Rachel snapped her first picture.

"Twenty-five more to go."

* * *

_She'd stayed underwater for hours, carefully avoiding search parties or impatient Mogadorians. Her bag was heavy, and it weighed her down. She decided to surface._

_The sky was dark and littered with stars, and she clambered ungracefully onto the dock, shivering with the cold. The loss of Julianne, buried since the morning, hit her like a stampeding truck and tears gathered in her eyes. She stepped down, and bumped smack into a body, and looked up to mumble an apology, but the words died in her throat._

_"Found you again," the same Mogadorian chuckled roughly, his fellows standing in a line about five feet away. "Poor little Loric."_

_"We'll be strong," Two burst out furiously but was internally sad and defeated—she couldn't escape and the hopelessness had swallowed her whole. "We'll fight to the end."_

_She slipped off her backpack, still laden with the Chest, and tossed it in the Thames, knowing it would sink and be nigh-unreachable for the Mogadorians._

_"Foolish girl," the Mogadorian rasped, unsheathing a sword. Her eyes refused to leave the heavens, where the stars glittered and promised hope._

_"I'm sorry," she whispered to them, and when the sword pierced her abdomen and her heart stuttered and beat one single, last beat, she didn't let her eyes close._

_Two's last look alive on Earth was of an English evening, admiring the sky._

_

* * *

_

Rachel's fingertips grazed her necklace, and when Two's final moments played out, she forced back tears and instead swore to every Loric lost—she'd win this.

The Mogadorians may win in the end, may take Earth and destroy it and everyone on it in a catastrophe of apocalyptic proportions, but Rachel wouldn't go down easily.

* * *

**Sorry for the constant switching between Rachel and Two, but I loved writing it that way. Thanks for reading!**


	6. Temper

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Hey! I'm glad everyone liked last chapter—I liked Two as well! I actually liked her so much as I was writing, I didn't want her to go either! Lame, right?**

**One of my stories got recommended on Tumblr! Hooray! **

**I just wanted to give a heads up—I'm planning to continue this story with the five upcoming _I Am Number Four_ sequels, with my own tricks with them. The next book is in August, I think, but I'll read it ahead of time and determine if/when I'll write a sequel to _this_ fic. Go me! :) ****Enjoy!**

* * *

"So, I've been thinking," Quinn announced, as soon as Rachel walked into Home Economics, another class they shared besides History, "you don't talk a lot about yourself."

Rachel refrained from answering at first as she sat down on her stool, and tilted her head to the side, indicating Quinn to continue.

"I've ranted on and on about _The Life and Times of Quinn Fabray,_" the blonde joked, earning a smile from Rachel, "but you don't tell anyone about you."

"I'm a better listener," Rachel countered easily, eyes fixed on the teacher, who stuttered something to the class about making oatmeal cookies. Rachel suppressed a laugh.

"Maybe all of us in glee are curious," Quinn offered, drawing Rachel's attention from the frazzled educator, "we'd like to know about you, that's all. As friends, you know?"

"Hmm."

"Besides," Quinn went on, pulling ingredients closer to them, "all I know about you is that you laugh at alien flicks, and love anything Broadway. Oh, and Disney, too."

"All _you_ know about me?" Rachel teased knowingly. "I know everyone in _glee_ wants to know my secrets."

Quinn determinedly kept her embarrassment at bay, the only clue being the redness in her cheeks and slight smile. "My mistake, I must've used the wrong pronoun. Oops."

"English probably isn't your best subject," Rachel quipped, grinning. Quinn sighed mockingly.

"Nah. Anyway, spill it. Tell me a secret," the blonde insisted quietly, and Rachel smiled in surrender. It couldn't hurt to become less of an enigma and more normal, right?

"I like Astronomy," she admitted honestly. "The universe is fascinating. But I haven't seen a class here devoted to it."

_Right. Fascinating in the narrow-minded view of absolutely nothing out there, like...extra-terrestrials? Or, unfortunately, extra-terrestrials intending to destroy the planet?_

"I think Mike has a telescope," Quinn recalled. "He's always been into that alien stuff. Maybe he'd let you use it sometime."

"Astronomy," the blonde mused after a few moments, while Rachel stirred the mixture in silence. "Funky."

Rachel snickered. "It adds to my mysteriousness, I'll guess?"

"It does," Quinn pouted. "I feel like I'm missing something important. Like, whoa, Rachel's got a _huge_ secret just waiting to be found out. Imagine that happening?"

"Maybe," Rachel laughed nervously, reflexively clenching her hands into fists after allowing Quinn to take over the stirring. "That'd be hilarious, wouldn't it?"

"Nothing cool ever happens here," Quinn sulked. "The most significant event is the big Halloween Festival and the parade around Christmas."

Rachel didn't reply, busy checking for a sign of glowing in her palms. Satisfied, she found Quinn placing the pan of batter into the oven, and then trying to untie her apron.

"Help?" Quinn asked, and Rachel nodded, undoing the knot and tugging on the strings playfully to signal she was done.

"This class is too easy," Rachel observed, eyeing the other students—two involved in a food fight, one dutifully following the recipe, and another asleep—"why are _you_ in it?"

"I needed a new elective," Quinn laughed, blushing a bit. "I, uh...single-handedly wrecked Photography class for anyone else this year until they can hire a new teacher."

Rachel's eyes widened in surprise. "How did you do that?"

"Um...the teacher and I, disagreed on a few things and I...got angry and turned all the lights on...on purpose," the blonde admitted, sheepish. "I exposed all the photos."

"_Why_?"

"He was an asshole!" Quinn stressed in a huff. "He had the audacity to say my composition was off. Trust me, I _know_ composition. He was barely out of college, too. Jerk."

"First a cheerleader, now a badass photographer and singer in glee club," Rachel considered, smiling impishly. "What's next, Quinn?"

"What about...a _Broadway_ star?"

"That's evil," Rachel grinned. "I'd be awfully jealous."

"It's a dog eat dog world," Quinn quipped haughtily, looking at the brunette in mock-disdain and a smirk. "Can you handle it?"

"Of course."

"Well..." Quinn hedged. "Could you handle hanging out with me at the Halloween Festival? Everyone's involved and I'll be taking pictures for the _Lima Gazette_."

"Sure," Rachel answered, concealing a pleased smile. "Don't feel like being alone for the night?"

"Not anymore," Quinn said, and as Rachel noticed another meaning in Quinn's words, the bell rang, ordering the end of class. Quinn stooped low, preparing to grab the tray.

"I'll get it," Rachel offered, and unthinkingly grasped the pan in her bare hands, placing it on the stovetop before realizing how stupid and obliviously obvious she just was.

"Oh my God, Rachel! What the f—" Quinn screeched frantically, seizing the brunette's hand like a madwoman and examining it closely. "Are you okay?"

"It-I, uh...ouch," Rachel lied, grimacing for effect. "I think I might've burnt it—"

"You think?" Quinn squeaked, tugging her by the wrist to the sink as other students left the room, along with the teacher. "Of _course_ you burnt it, you idiot! Oh my God..."

Rachel watched amusedly as Quinn turned on the sink, muttering about unsanitary water conditions and 'idiot' and tugging Rachel's hand under the stream of cold water.

"You said you cook?" Quinn groused. "That's like, common sense. Kitchen 101, even! Wear oven mitts next time, Rachel. I'd imagine you know that already. Jeez."

"Sorry."

Quinn grumbled something incomprehensible (probably admonishing and insulting) and turned off the water, checking Rachel's hands for nonexistent burns. Rachel knew there wouldn't be any, obviously. Her hands, arms, legs, and recently, abdomen were all resistant to fire now. Leroy's sessions with the Loric crystal repeated the process—as she became more fireproof, visions arrived. After dreaming and experiencing Two's last moments, Rachel was extremely relieved to only see Lorien in its glory for awhile.

"I don't know if we should go to the nurse," Quinn fretted. "What if you need a skin graft or something like Harvey Dent needed in _The Dark Knight_?"

"I'm fine, really," Rachel insisted—valiantly keeping her laughter silent—as she punctuated each word with a tug on Quinn's wrist. "We should go to class. We're late."

"If you're okay, I guess," Quinn muttered mutinously. "Hopefully I'll be around the next time you decide to act like an complete idiot."

"Well," Rachel smiled sweetly as they gathered their things, preparing to part ways, "I'll just have to be an idiot more often."

Unluckily enough, she _just_ missed Quinn's grin and the little, happy skip to her next class.

* * *

"No, that one sucks," Mike swore. "Are you _kidding_ me?"

"Michael," Rachel warned. "I'm entitled to a differing opinion than your own. Free country."

"First," Mike declared, a glower in his eyes and a wagging, stern finger in Rachel's face, "nobody except my mom calls me 'Michael'. Second, _Signs_ isn't a good alien movie."

"Um, _Michael,_ you're clearly missing the excellent praise it received from critics, good pace, and obviously amazing direction from M. Night Shyamalan."

"The aliens left because of _water_," Mike insisted keenly. "What the hell? It's like, hey, you, alien, hold my Poland Spring for a sec—no, oops! You just died. Like, come on!"

When a poignant silence followed his proclamation, Mike blushed as the rest of the glee club turned to look after his voice had risen too loud. Rachel stifled a giggle.

"Dude, really?" Puck guffawed.

"That's just sad," Mercedes added. "You're practically foaming at the mouth, Mike."

"You're debating movies with no depth, too," Kurt complained. "At least discuss something moving, like..._Titanic._"

"No!"

"Why watch a love story when you can see aliens die?" Mike demanded, and Rachel barely managed to avoid a retaliatory insult from escaping her mouth. Close one.

"Rose and Jack were meant to be!" Kurt exclaimed. "Their love was just unfortunately ended...when he, you know, froze to death."

"What?" Brittany cried, jaw dropping. "San, does that really happen? Jack _dies_?"

"Thanks a lot, Hummel," Santana growled when Brittany tore out of the room, sobbing, Quinn dutifully following after her. "I always _stop_ the movie _before_ that happens."

"What, do you do the same thing with Santa Claus?" Kurt asked rhetorically, unimpressed. "Keep her in the dark about her parents giving presents?"

"Uh, duh. Hello, she still believes in Santa," the Latina scowled, and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. Mr. Schue, busy speaking with Brad, sighed and ignored it.

"Anyway," Mike continued when the drama ended (Santana returning with a red-eyed Brittany and a silent Quinn), "I also don't get how you like _Star Wars _over _Star Trek._"

"Because the Jedi Knights and Sith Lords are cooler than some silly crew on a spaceship," Rachel countered smugly. Mike groaned.

"I need to educate you on this, Rach. You are so wrong, it's not even funny."

"Perhaps you need a new perspective."

"Perhaps you losers need to can it," Santana interrupted, rolling her eyes and earning relieved agreements from the others. "I won't listen to you ramble about pon farr."

"Santana," Mike teased knowingly. "That has to mean you're a Trekkie."

"How else would you know about an unfortunate Vulcan mating issue?" Rachel added, grinning.

Santana turned red as the others started giggling. "Hey, I just—shut up!"

"Who wants to sing a song from—" Mr. Schue announced, but was cut off by Santana, who raised her hand to escape her embarrassing predicament, quick as a flash.

"Me!"

"Santana, I didn't know you liked Hairspray," Mr. Schue exclaimed, obliviously delighted with the news. "You'll be singing _Good Morning, Baltimore_."

"Fuck," Santana muttered amongst howls of laughter, gleeful tears of mirth, and Mr. Schue's little pout of confusion at the uproar. "Fine, I'll sing the damn song..."

Mike leaned over to whisper in Rachel's ear when the band set up the beat, with Santana waiting for her cue.

"And that's why we don't interrupt Changberry-ultra-cool-alien discussions, huh?"

"Precisely," Rachel nodded, superior, as Santana began to sing, wincing, and Mike grinned, settling back to enjoy the show.

* * *

"You little freaks are so dead," Santana hissed as soon as practice was over. "I'll get you back."

"You volunteered, not us," Rachel pointed out. "We simply exposed your apparently 'shameful' appreciation of _Star Trek. _You should embrace it. Live long..."

"...and prosper," Mike finished, high-fiving his petite, brunette buddy and flashing the Vulcan salute. "We believe in you, Santana. Embrace your geek side!"

Santana stormed off, swearing, Brittany at her heels, who was questioning what pon farr actually was. Quinn watched them go, trying desperately not to laugh.

"I'd like to thank you both," Quinn snickered. "You just gave me some ammo to throw back at her. The tables have turned, at last."

"Happy to help," Rachel replied, smiling, and watched Quinn wave and leave, and then turn to find Mike, hands crossed over his chest and a wide smirk on his face.

"'Happy to help'," Mike mimicked, daintily twirling a nonexistent tress around his short, spiked hairstyle. "Ooh, Quinn, let me help you again sometime. At night. Alone."

Rachel's eyes narrowed. "Mike..."

"Quinn, would you help me pick out a dress?"

"Mike."

"Quinn, let's play Spin the Bottle and make out—"

"I don't have time for this," Rachel huffed, grabbing her bag and storming out of the room, Mike's amused laughter ringing in her ears.

She made her way outside, a crisp breeze stirring the air, and as she went to run home, as usual, a streak of golden brown caught her eye. The form moved closer, seeming to run at a speed impossible for something that small, and when it slowed to a complete stop, Rachel's frown turned into a smile as Elphaba Brice barked delightedly.

"Here all the way from home?" Rachel asked rhetorically, giving the dog an affectionate scratch on the ears. "I don't mind walking. You?"

The dog snorted loudly, wagging its tail, and trotted along beside the pensive brunette for the journey to the house, keeping a watchful eye out.

* * *

"Relax," Leroy instructed, almost habitually, and Rachel acquiesced, letting her eyes drift closed and her body become at ease, as a vision pulled her backwards in time.

She was on the outskirts of a suburb, watching interestedly as other Lorics bustled around her, carrying supplies and decorations. She wondered what holiday it was. Small rockets were being set up, signs posted in a script resembling hieroglyphics but familiar to her, and a box of sparklers was thrown haphazardly to be taken elsewhere.

Her gaze found a giggling, familiar child, with a mop of raven-colored hair and a bright smile, chocolate eyes dancing with joy as the five-year old girl ran around in a circle.

The little girl, breathless with laughter, both chased and fled from a strange creature, no taller than the girl herself, and appeared to constantly alter its shape.

Rachel watched her five-year old self squeal in happiness as the animal, shifting into something resembling a small tiger, growl playfully and advance closer.

A voice interrupted the sparring match, and the girl's head snapped up, obediently heaving herself to her feet and skipping into the nearby house, the animal at her heels. The creature akin to a tiger, shifted, becoming a bird—comparable to a minuscule parakeet—and flew to rest on the little girl's left shoulder, as both disappeared from view.

Rachel hastened after them, curious, managing to peek inside the window to see her doting grandparents making her younger self giggle, flashing them a bubbly grin.

She missed that feeling. The special one of complete peace and total calmness when around one's family, because they loved you unconditionally, always. Leroy, however careful and guarding and trustworthy, wasn't her father nor her grandfather. He and Rachel, although sharing a close bond of camaraderie as exiled Lorics and one of protector and protégée, it wasn't the same. Vaguely, she felt a bit better during glee club, when around the group of mostly kind humans she considered to be her friends.

Friends couldn't replace family, but they alleviated the emptiness slightly. Especially Mike, Quinn, and Noah. Rachel enjoyed their presence, if only for a short while.

Rachel watched night fall slowly on Lorien, as other Lorics emerged from their houses, excited and jovial. She assumed the holiday was a distinctive one—_everyone_ was outside. Children, giggling and chasing each other, were given sparklers, and from what Rachel could suppose, strict warnings to be extremely careful. Adults, grabbing partner's hands and those of friends, looking up to the sky with reverence, as fireworks exploded across the heavens amongst cheers. The sparklers, moving like light trails, streaked alongside running kids, laughter like a pleasing symphony of joy. Rachel couldn't help but smile in response; Lorien certainly seemed like a place of peace and care.

Fireworks of varying colors and shapes, glittered like diamonds to their enraptured audience, until finally, the very thing Rachel had been dreading finally appeared.

Before, she'd seen her grandmother crying, heard the thunderous booms, but now, she was actually witnessing it, the event that destroyed so many lives.

A screech of stretching ozone and a muted roar of a spaceship, black and monstrous and terrifying, crashed through the atmosphere as screams grew in volume.

Rachel didn't understand her native tongue fluently, but picked up on that one crucial word, one Leroy had mentioned in passing, like a Loric curse: "_Mogadorians._"

The invasion had began, and as Rachel knew with upmost despair, she could not stop it, no matter how hard she tried.

"Rachel," Leroy's voice interrupted, as the memory faded, and she opened her eyes, unsurprised to have to blink back tears. She sat up, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

It shouldn't be this _hard_ to watch; it was over and done with, useless to try and change the past, yet she couldn't stop feeling worse with each new vision of the invasion.

"I saw the start of it," she admitted after a period of silence. Leroy's gaze was unhappy, and he sighed, offering Rachel a tight hug. She felt marginally better.

"What did you see first?"

"People were decorating outside, in the streets," the brunette murmured. "Then I saw...me, and this weird animal-thing, and my grandparents, then fireworks, and..."

"The first Mogadorian shuttle," Leroy nodded, brushing hair from her eyes. "I know. It's painful to watch. It was painful to _experience_."

"Why don't I remember as clearly as you?"

"You left Lorien when you were five years old," Leroy told her. "Most children don't recall things clearly in any species. I'm not surprised you don't remember being in orbit."

"Orbit?"

Leroy gestured for her to sit, and he resumed his seat in a chair opposite her. "The nine Garde, and the nine Cêpan were the only ones to make it, as you know. We jumped on the only vessel ready in the hangar, and left everyone and everything behind," he explained, his voice heavier with what Rachel recognized as guilt. "The group flew to just outside Lorien's atmosphere, and watched the destruction occur for a single day. The Mogadorians were quick to settle, but, as they did on their own planet, used up the planet's resources in only a week. They still had Mogadore, but reduced Lorien to a barren wasteland, devoid of life besides the rotting bodies still lying on the ground."

Rachel winced at the unpleasant image she'd no doubt see eventually, and Leroy sighed again, looking distant.

"We couldn't waste time, so we used the navigation systems to send us to Earth. It was a long journey, maybe light years in Earth's measurements. Two years, it was."

"Two years? Together in one place?" Rachel repeated, frowning. "Why don't I remember anyone else?"

"It'll come back to you," Leroy assured her. "It takes time. Your Legacies are priority—the memories will come gradually."

"My first Legacy is better," Rachel volunteered when they had fallen into silence. "I'm not as angry, so it's easier to control when I get upset."

"Good."

"When do you think my telekinesis will appear?"

"Sometime within the next few months," Leroy estimated. "Maybe within the year. It varies."

Rachel struggled to phrase her next query when Leroy looked at the crystal in his hands, brows furrowed.

"Leroy?"

"Yes?"

Rachel squirmed, not wanting to make her Cêpan upset but eventually curiosity won out, and she asked, "do you ever...miss..._him_?"

"Of course," Leroy answered quietly, remembering his life-partner killed during the invasion on Lorien, Hiram. "All the time."

Lorics, as Rachel learned from Leroy's lessons, were monogamous beings. Upon meeting the _one,_ their soulmate, they would never love another again. Leroy even explained that Loric love didn't contain petty jealousy or useless squabbles—they just _were,_ just enjoyed being with their true love until death was their only barrier. Even now, Leroy still loved Hiram, and simply remembered the days they used to share. Lorics, unlike standards engrained in Earth's society, did not care for gender differences. It was the person, the soul, not classification, that drew Lorics in. Rachel wished it could be so easy on Earth; less would feel ashamed or embarrassed for their preferences.

"You should get some sleep," Leroy suggested, his tone soft. "You've had a trying...session. Rest up for school tomorrow, alright?"

"Okay," Rachel murmured, squeezing Leroy's hand in sympathy, and left him alone to his thoughts.

Rachel hoped she'd find someone, a love to cherish without issue. She could scantly imagine it; all relationships on Earth had at least some fighting, every now and then.

The brunette lied down on her bed, staring at the ceiling as Elphaba stretched out by her feet. She closed her eyes, hoping for a chance to find a powerful love for her own.

Knowing Leroy's loss, Rachel would fight tooth and nail to save her partner, and would do whatever it took to keep her soulmate safe and sound.

Her breathing evened out, and a image of blonde flashed in her brain, confusing her, before she was overcome with the darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

"Okay," Mr. Schue declared, rubbing his hands together, "let's get on the bus!"

It was in glee club's best interest, according to their exuberantly excited director, to scope out their competition for future matchups and maybe even learn a few things in the process. He'd planned to bring New Directions last year to shows held by other schools, but when they only had a group of eleven students and didn't count for a show choir, decided against it. With Rachel as the deciding factor, he'd passed out permission slips during practice and they were off two days later, accompanied by Ms. Pillsbury.

"Who are we looking at?" Kurt asked, when they were sitting down in the grand auditorium, nearing capacity already. "Carmel High, right?"

"Ah, yes. The group is called 'Vocal Adrenaline'," Mr. Schue answered distractedly, and Rachel watched Kurt's eyes bulge in horror.

"_This_ is our competition?"

The lights dimmed as Mr. Schue shushed Kurt, and Rachel's sensitive ears picked up on Kurt's mutter of "we're doomed" to Mercedes, who grimaced.

"Should be a treat," Quinn murmured on Rachel's left, and Rachel nodded, eyeing the stage expectantly as a quick tempo succeeded the curtain's rise.

Vocal Adrenaline, harmonizing in a quiet croon of "Ohio", broke formation and began to sing in unison, as Quinn told Rachel the song—_Rehab_ by Amy Winehouse. Rachel had to admit, this choir was clearly worthy of their numerous titles, something Mr. Schue had apparently forgotten to check. Their costumes were perfect, choreography was flawless, the set effects, including hairography, excellent, and their sublime voices blended together in a seamless chorus, with the final result being simple supremacy.

The crowd, already wild, screamed praises and endearments as Rachel peered down the line of New Directions, only seeing utter alarm and shock in their expressions.

"We're doomed," Kurt announced sagely, as soon as they'd jumped back on the bus to McKinley. "We'd be lucky to _place _near them, let alone win at Regionals."

"We still have Sectionals, guys," Mr. Schue reminded them. "We can't get intimidated early on. We'll have to practice harder, and eventually, we'll get better, like them."

Rachel, unapologetically bored with the conversation, leaned her head against the window. Quinn, sitting beside her, nudged Rachel's elbow.

"Hey, are you okay? Not another asthma attack?"

"Tired," Rachel explained quietly, and it seemed to appease Quinn, for the moment, as the blonde nodded and patted her arm before turning to speak with Santana. Rachel _was_ tired. She couldn't sleep for more than an hour after her vision, and the duration of her rest was disappointingly vague in new images, only offering quick flashes of Lorien's battle, and something else, _something_ important, like she should _know_ already, but she could only hazily account it to be errant thoughts and stress from school.

Leroy's loss didn't fade from her musings, but remained, as if a reminder. She wondered if other Cêpans lost partners, and realized they had to. Cêpan were assigned to the Garde at birth, but would always choose love over responsibility without hesitation. Rachel sighed softly, thinking of how many lonely days Cêpans had to suffer, all alone.

"Rachey, Rach," Mike greeted, when they'd stepped off the bus and were traipsing to the choir room. "How's my favorite midget?"

"I am not a midget," Rachel countered slowly. "Midgets are shorter than I am by at least a few inches."

"Hmm. Well, anyway, you look sad. Anything I can do?"

Rachel eyed him before letting her gaze fall on a flier, advertising a list of Halloween's festivities, to distract Mike. "What's with the Halloween dance?"

"It's really fun," Mike answered. "It's usually a masquerade, and it's actually on Friday, before the Festival on Saturday and then the holiday on Sunday."

"Does everyone go?"

"Yeah. We should go together, if you wanted," Mike suggested. "Maybe grab some matching costumes!"

"I don't know, I've never been to a dance before," Rachel mumbled. Mike gasped.

"Okay, this is serious. We _need_ to go to iParty. Only a few days of preparation," the boy muttered. "I never thought I'd say this, but after glee, we're going shopping."

* * *

"I can't do this," Rachel squeaked, as they loitered outside of McKinley High, several nights later. Mike frowned, adjusting his glasses.

"You need to go," Mike insisted. "I'd be alone and you've never been to one. It'll be okay. We don't even have to dance—"

"I don't mind the dancing," Rachel interrupted worriedly, wringing her hands. "I just...want to look okay. Nobody really likes my clothes. Argyle is very nice, in my opinion."

"I liked your owl sweater," Mike consoled. "And the kitten one, if that makes any difference."

"Regardless, do I look...normal?" Rachel asked, anxious. "Presentable, I mean?"

"Rachel," Mike smiled, drawing her in for a quick hug. "You look great. It's Halloween anyway, we can look stupid if we want to."

"Thanks, Mike."

Mike extended his arm, and Rachel linked hers with his own, and they drifted inside, as Mike handed their tickets to the student standing outside the gym doors.

The gym had transformed, dimly lit and obscure, as crackling, counterfeit laughter emitted from the old speakers hidden in the corners. A deep bass pounded over the manufactured cackling, as students danced wackily in the center, drinking punch, tossing candy, and grinning, looking strange and mysterious under the strobe lights. Confetti littered the floor and streams of tissue paper, orange and black, hung down from the ceiling. Balloons floated through the air, spinning elliptically, playfully pushed around by chuckling football players and giggling Cheerios, while teachers lingered in the doorways, chatting with each other and half-heartedly chaperoning everyone.

Rachel glimpsed costumes of all types—a clown, two mummies, a Darth Vader, three identically styled witches, a gladiator, several ghosts, some pirates, and even a Cupid.

She glanced at her costume, and at Mike; she was Janet, and he was Brad, at Rachel's insistence, of course (Rocky Horror _had_ aliens, and was a musical, so, compromise).

"So, Brad's a geek, right?"

Rachel nodded. "Brad is a very nerdy character. He and Janet are a fumbling, awkward couple, and end up extremely out of their comfort zones."

"Isn't the movie all about sex?"

"Sort of," Rachel acquiesced, and Mike snickered, waggling his eyebrows.

"We are _so_ watching that," the dancer declared, grinning. "Aliens, dancing, singing, and—"

"Intercourse," Rachel concluded dryly. "Is that all you boys think about?"

"Of course!"

"Talking about doin' the nasty?" Santana interrupted, scoffing, as Brittany greeted Rachel with a cheerful, almost overwhelmingly sweet hug. "I don't need to hear this."

Santana looked ghastly as a vampire, dressed in black and wearing plastic fangs. Brittany was dressed in a white chiton, imitating the goddess Aphrodite.

"We're friends," Rachel and Mike squawked at the same time, indignant. Santana laughed as Mike flapped his arm for effect, repeating the answer.

"Right."

* * *

The night went along nicely, as Mike promised to make her first school dance a great one. They'd joked around on the dance floor, jumping crazily to the songs, and socialized with glee members they found—Artie as a cowboy and Tina as his wench, Matt as a skeleton, Mercedes as Cleopatra, Kurt as a greaser (à la Danny Zuko)—while Mike kept up a running commentary of the most ridiculous costumes they saw. Rachel didn't stop smiling, it was simply impossible. She'd never had so much fun before.

She was hanging around the snack table, watching Mike chug punch with Matt, howling with laughter, until her smile faded as her mouth fell open in shock.

"Hey," Quinn exclaimed, tugging Puck along with her as she appeared in front of Rachel. "What's up?"

Puck, clad head to toe in a black-and-white striped jumpsuit, had a plastic chain attached to his foot, and handcuffs on one wrist. Quinn, on the other hand—Rachel's only comprehensive thought at the time was _gah—_was dressed in a blue shirt and a short skirt (way, way too short), with a duty belt carrying fake handcuffs and a toy handgun, while aviator sunglasses rested between her zipper lines at the chest. Blonde hair was splayed beneath a widely brimmed hat, a badge in the center of the shiny, black top.

"Uh-hagh-gah...hey," Rachel squeaked, wincing at her lack of intelligence. "H-hello. Quinn, Noah. H-how are you?"

Quinn's teeth glinted brightly under the strobe lights as she grinned. "Awesome. We got here late because Puck was being an ass."

"Old ball and chain wouldn't let me sneak some beer," Puck grunted, jerking his thumb at Quinn. "My costume is totally right."

Puck leaned past Rachel, eyeing the punch bowl, and promptly smirked in anticipation.

"Quinn," Puck singsonged. "Somebody spiked the punch. I can tell. You should..." he paused suggestively, "...arrest 'em."

Rachel immediately thought the same, and berated her already stupefied mind in frustrated silence. Quinn scowled.

"Shut up, Puck!"

"That's _right_! Tell 'em who's boss," Puck encouraged, sniggering, and sprinted into the crowd before Quinn could smack him. The blonde sighed, half-annoyed, half-amused.

"He's a dick," Quinn grumbled, accidentally standing too close for comfort, as Rachel caught a light trace of a dizzying, confounding perfume. Rachel coughed, befuddled.

"Uh-huh," Rachel answered stupidly. _Why _did Quinn have to dress like that? Now she'd never be able to look at cops again without blushing! _Stupid, irritating, pretty..._

"Cute costume," Quinn commented, looking Rachel up and down. Rachel squirmed under the scrutiny.

"Thank you."

"Hey, are you okay?" Quinn questioned, leaning closer. _Don't_, Rachel internally squealed. _I can't even stand here without wanting—_

"Fine," Rachel ground out, interrupting her own internal turmoil. "It's hot in here. I'm...uh, overstimulated."

_Understatement of the year._

"Want to go outside?"

"I'm fine," Rachel lied too fast, hoping Quinn would buy it and just back off. Quinn didn't pull away, only frowned, but nodded. Rachel exhaled in relief. Quinn remained close, though—to a mix of Rachel's fear and satisfaction—as the air, lights flashing and laughter rising and music booming, seemed to tighten. An escalating beat of the current song jumped quicker, and Rachel watched Quinn's eyes, still looking odd in the flashing illumination of room, darken, from a safe hazel to an impenetrable, urgent auburn shade. Rachel didn't pay attention to the increasing shrieks and snickers, nor the yelled warnings from Mike, but only leaned closer and closer to Quinn until—

_Splash._

"Punch for Fabray and the freak," Karofsky cheered, tossing the empty bowl on the floor with a great bellow of triumph. "Suck on that, bitches!"

Quinn, a surprised gasp escaping her lips, just managed to see Rachel clench her fists until her knuckles were white, stomp to Karofsky, and punch him hard in the jaw.

The music whirred to a brisk stop as Karofsky, clutching his chin in absolute agony, tumble to his knees and land on his back, bleeding profusely from his mouth.

Rachel's fist, still squeezed so tight Quinn feared the skin would break, looked both ridiculous and strangely menacing in her costume, as she glared down at the crying jock.

"Leave me _alone,_" was the vicious hiss from Rachel, and stormed away, easily disappearing as teachers converged, all unable to locate the suddenly elusive brunette.

"B-bisch hu-hitt me," Karofsky whimpered, blood trickling thickly between his trembling fingers, still covering his mouth. "Muh...tuheeth hurrrt!"

"Fuck you," Puck's voice rang out from the mass of bodies. "You deserved it, asshole!"

"He shouldn't have done it!" Someone agreed loudly, sounding suspiciously like Kurt. Mercedes's little 'hmph' succeeded the shout in approval.

"Hey!" Finn yelled back. "It was a freakin' joke! Dave's, like, injured!"

"He could die!" Another football player roared. "Berry totally broke his face!"

Quinn watched Mike dart out of the side door, and quickly followed, as one teacher called an ambulance, and the others formed a circle around the disgustingly sobbing Karofsky, no doubt feeling a fractured jaw and/or smashed teeth. She pushed her hair, sticky and syrupy, from her eyes, peering down the hallway. Her sneakers, caked in the punch, squeaked against the linoleum as she searched, heart sinking. The night had been awesome in the minimal time she'd spent there. Rachel had looked particularly starry-eyed—goal accomplished, yay—but Karofsky had to _ruin_ it. The blonde's thoughts were interrupted as she caught a glimpse of a light from a classroom.

Her eyes squinted curiously as her hand reached out to turn the doorknob, when the door opened, revealing a bedraggled, punch-soaked Rachel, Mike at her heels.

"Rachel," Quinn breathed, aghast. "Are you okay?"

Rachel didn't _look_ like she'd been crying, but Mike's grim scowl made Quinn know it to be true.

"Fine," Rachel answered robotically. "I'd just like to go home now."

"But—"

"I'll see you tomorrow at the Festival, maybe," Rachel continued coldly, not meeting her gaze. "Goodnight, Quinn. You looked beautiful, as always."

The compliment would've made her beyond happy on a normal day, yet tonight, she felt worse. Karofsky was Finn's friend, and in turn, wouldn't like Rachel near Quinn at all. Or kissing. Quinn felt like hitting Finn herself—why did he have to send Karofsky intervene right then? It was so _close,_ right? Rachel wasn't pulling away, no, quite the opposite. Quinn tried to find words, anything to console Rachel, but the sentence died in her throat as Rachel simply sighed and strode away, head bowed and fists curled.

Mike offered a sympathetic half-smile as he followed his friend away, and Quinn's heart sank.

* * *

Rachel's hands, still quivering with fury, were curled under her shirt—just in case—as Mike's arm came to rest kindly over her shoulders.

"Don't feel bad, Rach," Mike murmured. "He's never getting out of Lima, like we are."

Something so sweet, but so far away, hit Rachel's mind about that statement. Mike had _no_ idea that she probably wouldn't make it to college, nor would stay in Lima that long. Karofsky had a chance of at least a mundane life, free of the danger she had hanging over her head at all times. Karofsky, however spiteful and malicious and rude, wouldn't be murdered savagely (or, maybe, if someone hated him enough) like she would. He wasn't living in blood-curdling fear, he wasn't different, he wasn't _her. _Rachel didn't understand why Mike's words made her so sad about a truth she'd been trying to accept forever, but combined with both messes involving Quinn and the humiliation and just plain frustration of a night she was supposed to enjoy, but was ruined because of a human's cruelty, made the fourth Loric teenager burst into fresh, hot tears.

"Don't cry, Rachel," Mike soothed, wrapping his arms around her waist as she buried her face in his chest, sobbing. "It's okay, it'll be okay."

"How do you know?"

"Because," Mike smiled, tilting her chin up, "I know a little something to make you cheer up."

"What's that?" Rachel sniffed pitifully, as they wandered slowly to Mike's car, parked in the distance.

"Z movies," Mike answered simply, and smiled wider when a watery laugh escaped Rachel's lips. "Yup. Terribly awful, poorly made movies, like _Plan 9 from Outer Space._"

"What about _Bride of the Monster_?"

"Perfect," Mike acquiesced. "If they make you laugh, we're good."

"Mike?"

"Yeah?"

"You're the best friend I've ever had."

"Thanks, Rach. You too."


	7. Control

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Salutations! Here's chapter seven, enjoy!**

* * *

She shouldn't have gotten so angry.

Karofsky, the immature jerk, wasn't worth her aggression. He almost got the brunt of her rage—she was _this _close to losing it. Rachel shuddered. Her stomach churned uncomfortably, as a fabricated image crept into her mind, if she'd let her strength overcome her control...Karofsky, brutally damaged beyond repair and skull in decimated fragments beneath a nasty mess of flesh and blood. Rachel imagined the unholy terror she'd inflict, if such an event occurred, how easily she'd be questioned, sentenced, forced to jail for murder. Her ire had nearly exploded past her restraint, and it left her paralyzed with fear. How could she almost lost it after years of hiding? She almost jeopardized her secret, along with Leroy and their location, and it was all because of one supposed-to-be insignificant human girl who'd ensnared her in an unrelenting vice.

Quinn—better, it was Finn and the jocks, but Quinn, essentially, was the source—had practically cost her everything. Rachel could scarcely believe it.

It wasn't all Quinn's fault, per say. Rachel had free will and a sense of stability, but it was something about Quinn that dangerously drew her in, almost magnetically.

Rachel's fingers tightened infinitesimally around the camera Quinn had let her borrow, the reel indicating she was on her final picture.

She wanted to make it count, but somehow, it wouldn't ever be enough. It was more than Quinn's simple approval that she wanted, and it frightened her.

"I must be crazy, Elphaba," Rachel murmured.

Elphaba Brice emitted a blustery sigh, sounding sympathetic, at least for a dog. Rachel patted her twice on the head, and the dog blinked, questioningly.

"She's just...I really want to...I'm..._I'm_ trying to have a heart-to-heart with a dog?" Rachel realized, grinning tiredly at her delusion. "Silly me."

Elphaba snorted.

Rachel's eyes drifted to her nightstand, as the clock flipped to 7:14PM. She'd spent all day in her room, ignoring Leroy's inquires, and texting Mike, here and there when she was bored. They'd watched quite a few Z movies, sniggering at the poor quality, yet enjoying the quirky charms. _Plan 9 _was her favorite one of the bunch. Mike had emphasized—until she cheerfully made fun of him—about how Ed Wood, although represented as a bad director, still managed to keep your attention, even for a little while.

Her thoughts strayed again.

_"Well..." Quinn hedged. "Could you handle hanging out with me at the Halloween Festival? Everyone's involved and I'll be taking pictures for the Lima Gazette."_

Rachel distinctly remembered in her frosty, wrath-filled promise, to maybe attend the Festival with Quinn, but she honestly didn't know what to do.

She felt lost, for the first time since she could remember, and still was undecided, a half hour later. She couldn't talk to Leroy; any talk of what happened at the dance could have him packed up with the Jeep ready to bolt in a matter of minutes. Rachel's unease grew. She didn't lie to Leroy—never, until Lima—and guilt remained her companion. Leroy pledged to protect from anything, but in her desperation, Rachel couldn't admit that the danger was most likely herself, and her rapidly disintegrating temper.

The solution lingered on her mind as she called a goodbye to Leroy, pulling a hoodie around her shoulders and tucking her hands in her pockets, the night air cool and brisk.

Squeals of children, dressed up although Halloween was tomorrow, drifted into her ears, picking up the noise from a street over. Reminded of the Loric children, she sighed.

It was nearing eight o'clock when Rachel finally reached the town square, and a small, appreciative smile tugged at her lips, making her sour mood lessen.

Quinn hadn't been joking when she said everyone was involved was the brunette's first impression. Decorations were plastered on nearly all available space, speakers played spooky music tracks, adults clad in costume passed around candy and made kids giggle, and Rachel spied the timeless party classic of bobbing for apples. The center of Lima was adorned in lights of bright orange and murky black, and in the distance, Rachel saw a collection of hay bales, formed into a quadratical boundary surrounding a carnival. Familiar rides and small rollercoasters were spread out, and the odor of popcorn and cotton candy finally reached her as she paid a few dollars to walk into the enclosure.

Her smile was wide with amazement, eyes taking everything in. Small towns must love any excuse to splurge, with the fun it brought each and every year.

Her mood, hovering between apathy and surprise, stilled when her gaze landed on a kneeling blonde, the stunning grin noticeable even behind a camera.

The two toddlers Quinn had taken a picture of waddled back to their mother, Quinn's amused thank-you following after them, and Rachel's stare met Quinn's eyes at last.

The photographer stood motionless, camera hanging from her neck as she eyed Rachel, as if she was afraid to move and break the spell. Rachel's gaze moved, admiring how..._perfect_ Quinn seemed to look tonight. Her feet, moving almost of their own, stubborn accord, took her to just two feet away from Quinn, as Quinn finally let herself blink. The brunette's common sense and reason screamed that interacting with the blonde would only drag her further into Quinn's web, but strangely enough, Rachel didn't seem to hear it. All she could focus on was the heavy, halfway uncomfortable, halfway inquisitive silence that plagued the two amongst the loud chaos of the Festival.

"I...I didn't think you'd show up," Quinn admitted softly, breaking the trance, like she regretted doing so.

"I didn't either."

Quinn's hands, looking shaky, clasped together in a firm hold. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Rachel asked absently, still scrutinizing the ex-cheerleader's nervous features.

"The dance," Quinn answered, apologetic. "Finn still won't leave you alone, and that's my fault."

"It's not, Quinn," Rachel sighed. "The football players and Finn all have a conscious—I hope separately, at least—but in no way is it _your_ fault for their bullying decisions."

"But it's provoked by—"

"Finn's jealousy, I know," Rachel nodded, reaching out a hand to pry apart Quinn's hands, holding onto one and squeezing their fingers together. "He'll have to deal with it."

"It?"

Quinn's gaze was hesitant at the question. Hopeful, almost, and Rachel couldn't help but smile. Her original, plausible solution—something very Clark Kent of her to do—the plan she created on the trek to the Festival, conveniently disappeared from her thoughts. She couldn't stop being..._this_ with Quinn. It was impossible and hopeless. Already helplessly trapped in Quinn's orbit, Rachel couldn't bring herself to leave, nor did she want to. She'd take on anyone who dared to try and ruin it, and seeing an obvious glimmer of happiness spark in the blonde's eyes, Rachel knew she made the correct choice. Screw being heroic; Rachel allowed herself, this time only, to be selfish.

Her anger, although engulfing and tremendous and out-of-this-world, could and would be dealt with. She just wanted to enjoy herself around Quinn.

"Yes, it," the Loric teenager acquiesced earnestly, squeezing Quinn's hand, still entangled with her own and watching Quinn smile again. "Want to go on rollercoaster?"

"I'd love to."

* * *

Rachel had seen other students from McKinley as they wandered around, and received a handful of dirty, haughty looks from Finn, some Cheerios, and some football boys.

Leroy had stopped by the Festival for a quick hello, only raising an eyebrow at Rachel before giving her a grudging nod, indicating they would talk later as he left.

"Your dad seems like a bit of a loner," Quinn observed in a drawl.

"He is. He usually stays home and writes."

"What does he write about?"

"Oh...uh, political...erm, political opinions," Rachel lied, pulling at straws. They didn't even have a cover-story, so she had to make one up. "He's one tough Democrat."

Quinn's laughter was pure delight.

"Don't let my father hear that," Quinn grinned, and nudged Rachel's shoulder. "He's Republican. I can actually see his face...oh, by the way, we didn't get that movie night."

"Tomorrow, then?" Rachel silently hoped she didn't sound too interested. Quinn pretended to think about it.

"Sunday dinner...you'd be meeting my sister, Frannie."

"Well, that sounded oddly irritable," Rachel teased.

"Frannie's a stick in the mud," Quinn grumbled. "So _freaking_ uptight. I pity Joe."

"Joe?"

"Her husband. He's a pretty cool guy, though. I sometimes play him on COD when he's not working. We make a good team, with a low kill-death ratio—"

Rachel laughed so hard she stumbled over her feet, a rare occurrence for someone with Loric agility, interrupting Quinn mid-explanation and making the blonde pout.

"You play COD? _You_?"

"Yes!" Quinn protested defensively, yet unable to look completely upset at Rachel's mirth. "Puck got me into it when I was pregnant, okay?"

"Sure."

"Hey _guys_," an insolent voice intruded, and the pair glanced to find themselves in front of the hayride, and a zombie-fied Azimio Adams, grinning broadly.

"Azimio," Quinn acknowledged, ever cordial, gripping on Rachel's fingers harder. "What's up?"

"You two feeling up for a hayride? Next one's ready to go."

Azimio, covered in greenish makeup and dressed in ripped jeans, and a T-shirt under his letterman, looked very suspicious in Rachel's opinion, but she said nothing aloud.

Quinn however, not paying attention to Rachel's blatant skepticism, brightened excitedly in spite of the situation.

"Rach, I _love _this thing. It's really fun! Come on, let's go, please?"

"Okay," the brunette sighed, and they clambered on to the bale sitting on the cart attached to the tractor, where a driver waited patiently for them to settle. The cart shuddered as the tractor lurched, and the wheels began to drag them into the woods, Azimio's not-so-obvious laughter fading from earshot. Rachel stifled a dark scowl.

"Get ready to be scared," Quinn promised teasingly, and Rachel smiled in response, previous annoyance hidden well. She shuffled so they were pressed shoulder to shoulder.

"Got it."

* * *

The woods, darkened by the night and looking extremely oppressive, filled with artificial shrieks and maniacal cackles by hidden speakers. Quinn managed to make Rachel laugh for the majority of the ride, usually at her little jolts of astonishment when something frightening leaped out at them. They passed a mock-doctor's table, where a dummy looked to be surgically disemboweled and a mannequin doctor held a bloody liver. Seeing Rachel's expression of disgust, Quinn leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"Last year, they had the dummy in an iron maiden," Quinn told her. "Then the next one was gross—a dude being tarred and feathered, like in the American Revolution."

"Happy Halloween," Rachel offered mockingly, pretending to smile crazily like a lunatic, and Quinn burst into loud giggles. Rachel grinned, amused.

The tractor slowed to a stop, and the driver turned around in his seat, pointing them to the funhouse. With a nod, he maneuvered around and left the way he'd come.

Quinn pulled Rachel along, and they hurried inside, laughing at their quick, jumpy movements in the strobe lights, just like at the dance.

The route through the funhouse was short, and when they reached the woods again to find the path to back into the center of Lima, Rachel bumped into someone.

"Rachel?"

"Hey," Rachel smiled, releasing Quinn's hand to hug the dancer, who complied and greeted Quinn as well.

"Here alone?" Quinn asked. "Must've been creepy."

"Yeah. Matt bailed—he's with his little sister on the Ferris wheel," Mike explained, barely discernible in the darkness. "I liked the ride, so, I went by myself. No big deal."

Rachel was about to ask a question when she felt the sudden pain of a fist smashed brutally into her eye.

She stumbled backwards, air hissing through her teeth as Mike yelped, and the noise of Quinn struggling and swearing, a scream leaving the blonde's mouth, somewhere close. Orders to take her elsewhere were commanded, but Rachel missed where. Derisive laughter rebounded on all sides as Rachel punched blindly into the air, instinct taking over, even if largely unprepared and outnumbered. These weren't Mogadorians, not even close, as far she could tell, but they'd do for a beating for trying this stunt.

Mike's voice was nearer, shouting, only to be cut off by his own pained grunts, like he'd been kicked in the stomach.

"Rachel!" Quinn screamed, further away. "Rachel!"

Rachel's (not able to leave to find Quinn yet) scrabbling hand found purchase on an unseen attacker's sleeve, and she yanked them closer, swinging a blow into their throat.

"Holy—fuck, ow!"

Rachel and the body toppled to the ground, hands scratching and clawing, and Rachel shot a hard punch into her adversary's chin, making the opponent cry out.

"I—bitch!"

Recognizing it as female, Rachel continued to fight, hearing low chuckles in the vicinity. A foot smacked on her spine, making her gasp, and finally, she found a shirt collar.

"Lemme go!" The girl yelled. Rachel didn't answer, finding a strap, and then on the girl's face, glinting slightly, was a greenish glass. Night-vision goggles.

Still feeling relentless smacks and hits on her head in a completely unfair brawl of at least six on one, Rachel simply tugged the mask a little, and let it go, so it slapped off the girl's face and made her opponent shriek. Rachel struggled to her feet, fury growing at this group of humans and their audacity to attack three random people off the hayride. As she scraped for anything, an upper hand, she realized it couldn't be random. Azimio asked them on this ride—it had to be the football team, and loyal Cheerios.

Finn. Always Finn. He wasn't totally stupid, just slow on the uptake, and it wouldn't have taken a genius to organize a fight between his friends and new rival for Quinn.

Also, to probably avenge Karofsky's 'tragic' injury and embarrassment.

Anger boiling anew in her mind, like a tempest on a still sea, foreshadowing the calm before the storm, Rachel shoved her attackers back and growled, her palms beginning to glow. Rage burned over her reason, melting her ability to think clearly and promising catastrophe. She was the stronger one, she could _destroy_ these pathetic excuses for life. She didn't think of Leroy's inevitable horror, nor the ramifications of her actions. She just erupted, bluish brilliance making her palms gleam as she smacked punch after punch, finally able to see. Hindered by night-vision goggles—with that pesky tendency to shine torturously with an overabundance of light—the football players and cheerleaders shouted and begged for her to stop, but she wasn't deterred. Her fury was an endless gall of blows and slams, her strength in check but still incredibly painful.

Mike was still as a statue, leaning against a tree as he heaved for breath, but she couldn't be bothered by him. She lifted the last boy, quivering and shaking, into the air.

"Where did they take Quinn?"

"None of your business, dumb—"

Rachel's grip on his collar shoved his head with a hard smack onto the tree again, and the boy squeaked, agonized.

"_Where_ did they take Quinn?" Rachel repeated in a ferocious snarl, palms brightening in azure intensity, heightened in her anger. "Tell me!"

"Shepherd Falls...Finn's already there," the football player gasped, struggling to break her grip and simultaneously remove his night-vision goggles. "What _is_ that?"

Rachel ignored him and let him tumble to the ground in a heap, stepping over her snitch and hearing cries and blubbering from the boys and girls she'd smacked around.

"Psycho," one Cheerio wheezed, gingerly feeling her bruised cheek. "I can...take you...again."

"We'll call the cops," another girl rasped. Rachel sneered.

"And what? Admit that you definitely _stole_ those from the sheriff's office and assaulted my friends and I? Good luck with that, asshole."

"Rachel," Mike interrupted, expressionless in the flickering indigo blaze still on her hands and jerking his thumb to the left. "Shepherd Falls is this way."

"Let's go."

* * *

Mike didn't speak for the entire way to their destination, leading her on the path, gesturing for her to avoid fallen trees. Otherwise, his mouth was set in a thin line.

Forcing her panic from her brain, she offered her only alternative—another lie, and it made her want to be sick for deceiving her one of her first real friends.

"It's a glove gimmick," the brunette muttered. "I grabbed them from one of the boys. Lights up, like a glowstick."

"Ah," was Mike's only acknowledgement, slightly cold. "iParty, maybe."

Her heart clenched in trepidation and hurt. Anxious to protect her secret, but hurt that Mike seemed uncharacteristically distant. Maybe he blamed her for the brawl, too.

They reached Shepherd Falls, as Rachel's ears detected rushing water, loud breathing, and lastly, Quinn's enraged shouts.

"—fucking idiot! You decide to pull _this _to win me back? Are you stupid or just goddamn obsessed?"

"Quinn, you're not and haven't been listening," Finn insisted, almost pleadingly. "I miss you. I love you. Why can't we be together? We went really well, remember?"

"I cheated on you because I hated the cliché we became, with your _best_ friend," Quinn retorted icily. "I don't want you, Finn. I may have loved you before, but not again."

"But you had a plan," Finn's voice whined as Rachel drew closer, extinguishing her lighted palms. Mike trailed behind, listening closely.

"I don't want to be the most popular girl in school anymore, Finn. There's more to life than that, and besides...I'm interested in someone else."

"It's Rachel, isn't—"

His sneer was cut off when Rachel herself bolted from the bushes, tackling Finn to the ground and pulling him into an unbreakable headlock.

"I...leggo," Finn coughed, fist smacking harmlessly off the brunette's locked forearms. "_Quinn_—she's...ow!"

Rachel pushed his face to the dirt, one hand braced on the struggling quarterback's shoulder and the other ensnared around his wrist. Rachel felt her teeth bare into a jeer.

"Let's see how you throw with a broken arm," the brunette snarled, and as pressure applied to Finn's arm began to burn, the boy croaked out a harsh swear.

"Rachel!" Quinn shouted, forcing Rachel to come to her senses. "Rachel! Rachel, _stop_! Now!"

Rachel's eyes snapped up to Quinn's insistent ones, and she relinquished her hold on Finn, who crawled away painfully, dark bruises steadily forming underneath his clothes.

The blonde extended her hand and pulled Rachel to her feet, where Mike was leaving, glancing once to make sure they were following, and the three left Finn behind.

Quinn's grip wasn't tentative anymore—it was fierce and unyielding, and Rachel allowed it, resigned to the talk they needed to have.

The trio walked in silence through the woods, and upon reaching the Festival, Mike muttered a hurried goodbye and vanished, making Rachel feel both terrified and angry.

_Now what?_

"Walk me home?" Quinn's voice murmured in her ear.

"Okay."

* * *

"I'm sorry," Quinn said quietly, when they were ambling onto her street, watching kids disappear into their homes, eagerly awaiting the next night.

"You don't have to apologize," Rachel disagreed. "Finn was just trying to be your boyfriend again."

"That's no excuse."

Quinn's fingers tilted Rachel's chin up, and hovered over a blossoming black eye on Rachel's face, as the blonde looked sad.

"You should get that looked at," Quinn mumbled.

"I'm okay," Rachel countered, hands in her pockets. She didn't blame Quinn, not at all, but didn't know how to bridge the gap of uncertain awkwardness between them.

Quinn sighed, meeting Rachel's gaze and boring into her. "What did you mean...earlier?"

The heavy, restlessly antsy air settled again, contrasting with the otherwise placid, quiet evening. Rachel's mind went a little fuzzy, trying to recall her own words.

"Earlier?"

"You said," Quinn whispered, "...you said he'd have to deal with it."

"I did," Rachel replied, matching her tone. "He'll have to deal with...with, uh..."

Rachel struggled to string her thoughts together cohesively when Quinn seemed closer than before, the unease around them diminishing and morphing to urgency.

Hazel stared into brown, almost identically darkening to the tawny hue, just like the night of the dance. Rachel's breath caught, her skin warming a bit, searing her like fire.

Quinn seemed to gather resolve and clarity as words fluttered against Rachel's cheek, the blonde's features pulling into a smile: "He'll probably have to deal with _this_."

Rachel felt like her had surely limbs turned to jelly when Quinn kissed her, hand curling gently under her chin to keep her in place. Anything, both important and unnecessary was whisked from Rachel's brain, and she was just felt and didn't think. The kiss was slow and delicate and sweet, and Rachel's stomach did somersaults at the thrilling, although very foreign feeling. No one had ever kissed her before. Her eyes remained shut when Quinn pulled away, slinking her free hand to hold one of Rachel's.

"I've wanted to do that for awhile," Quinn's voice murmured. "I knew you were different as soon as I laid eyes on you."

"Different?" Rachel's eyes drifted open slowly, leisurely, as she studied the blonde.

"Special," Quinn elaborated, sounding calmer than before, looking shy. "I was pretty obvious about liking you though. I'm not particularly subtle when I want something."

"I thought I was very obvious, too," Rachel admitted with a small smile, feeling a swooping in her stomach. "That was my first kiss. I'm glad it was you."

Quinn leaned down, giving her another one, and they stood there under the stars, and only stopped when there was a slam of a door.

"Quinn Fabray!"

Quinn detached her lips with a frustrated huff and peered up a driveway, as a woman in her sixties was shaking her head disapprovingly in her doorway.

"Is she homophobic?" Rachel whispered.

"No, just...protective," Quinn answered, and raised her voice. "What, Mrs. Anderson?"

"I'm calling your mother! A neighborhood is no place to canoodle! That's for privacy!"

Rachel suppressed a bark of laughter while Quinn struggled to keep her face neutral. "This is Rachel, Mrs. A!"

"Hello, Rachel," the old woman yelled back. "I would say nice to meet you, but I've now labeled you as a canoodler."

"She loves that word," Quinn hissed, rolling her eyes at Rachel's barely hidden giggles. "Okay, Mrs. Anderson! Bye, then!"

The old woman, already dialing, shut her door and not a minute later, when Rachel was eagerly about to kiss Quinn again, half the doors on the street burst open.

"Quinnie," Mrs. Fabray called obnoxiously, cackling. "Someone's been caught!"

"Get it!" A sixteen year old boy shouted from two houses down, and loud sniggers erupted on each side of the street, and Quinn's cheeks colored an adorable pink.

"Who are you dating, Quinn?" A couple asked, chuckling. Inquires fired off from anyone outside as more doors opened curiously, and Rachel only looked amused.

"My neighborhood sucks," the blonde whimpered, and Rachel pressed a kiss to her cheek, and annoying coos followed it.

"I expect to be introduced to you properly, Rachel!" Mrs. Fabray announced in a trilling, pleased tone. "Tomorrow!"

"Okay, yeah, whatever, Mom!" Quinn ordered at the top her voice, mortified. "Can everyone let me have a life, please? Go inside already!"

Delighted snickers preceded several slamming doors, and the two were left alone, a cute little sulk on Quinn's face. Rachel kissed her once, untangling their hands.

"Hey," Quinn whined. "That wasn't a goodbye kiss."

"Yes it was," Rachel beamed. "Very much so."

"Not fair. My stupid neighbors ruined it. We're all close and they've like, watched me grow up so this is weird for them and I guess—"

Another kiss cut off her rant, and Rachel laughed gently at Quinn's slightly dreamy expression. "There. Happy?"

"Very."

"I'll see you tomorrow for Sunday dinner and a Disney movie marathon," Rachel promised, smiling. "Okay?"

"Okay," Quinn agreed. "Text me?"

"Sure."

Rachel watched Quinn go inside, unable to wipe off her giddy smile even if she tried. Her temper may have created disastrous ramifications, a black eye on her face, probable destruction of her friendship with Mike, and a possible series of assault and battery charges from the all football players, Finn, and the Cheerios, but even if a few of those made her scared and upset, _this,_ the very thing she'd contemplated giving up, giving up everything Quinn in fear of her secret, all didn't seem to matter at the moment.

Quinn somehow made it all better, and with a skip in her step, Rachel wandered home, feeling more human, more _normal,_ than ever before, and liked it quite a lot.


	8. Doubt

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Just a reminder, in case anyone forgot: Rachel's not a vegan in this. Anyway, enjoy!**

* * *

_The air was difficult and cumbersome, making his lungs strain a bit at the pressure. Around him, clouds blanketed the sky, allowing a lazy, morning sun to linger on his skin. Dizziness was present, but not overpowering. He, unlike humans, could handle the pins and needles, sense of weakness, and persistent jumping of an overexerted pulse._

_Lorics, evolved far past humans, didn't feel altitude sickness as much. They could handle it. He could ignore the cold as well__—no need for winter jackets, in his case._

___Agile and spry like a mountain goat, his steps didn't falter once as he climbed, breathing evenly and slowly, preserving his energy._

___When he reached the top of the mountain, a reluctant smile curved on his mouth. Earth certainly was a scenic planet. Young, overpopulated and overdeveloped, maybe, but one day could be as beautiful as Lorien if they actually fixed their environment. But, that was a tale for another day and a few more lying politicians promising change._

___His satellite phone buzzed in his pocket, and upon extracting it, he pressed a button, allowing a familiar voice to fill his ears._

___"That was...about fifty minutes."_

___"What's the record?" _

___"Two hours, forty minutes," his Cêpan said, sounding amused. "A very good workout, and you've smashed the records to pieces. If only you could tell someone, huh?"_

___"True," the boy grumbled. "I'd be crowned a king or something__—whatever these human traditions are...w_hat's this mountain called again, anyway?"

___"Mount Kinabalu, in Borneo, Malaysia. Remember? Check your facts, boy. You'll need to know how to adapt here. Humans are suspicious enough already."_

___"Yeah, yeah," One muttered, a scowl darkening his features. "I know."_

___

* * *

_

Rachel yawned, rubbing sleep from her eyes and sitting up in bed, casting a glance at the clock, reading 9:46AM. Well, Sunday mornings did allow sleeping in a little.

Her phone, resting beside her on her pillow, vibrated noisily, and a new text arrived.

_Hi. :)_

Rachel grinned, fingers flying over the keys, composing a reply.

_Hello, and I suppose, good morning to you, too!_

_I'd like a good morning kiss, but, I guess I'll have to wait until later,_ Quinn flirted. Rachel giggled.

_Think of it as a long awaited treat._

_Okay, you asked for it. After I see you, I'm going to belt out "Afternoon Delight" as loud as I can. :D_

_Well_, _if you'd want to embarrass yourself in front of your neighbors again, go ahead..._

_Don't remind me! Mom is still laughing! I'll never live this down!_

Rachel's laughter was loud and happy as she descended the stairs, hand trailing along the banister. Her feet carried her automatically into the kitchen, where Leroy was sitting, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. Rachel, absorbed by her texting, blindly grabbed a bowl and some cereal, milk, and a spoon, and sat down at the table, already writing another reply. Leroy eyed the black and blue bruises on Rachel's face and fragile way her knuckles looked, but waited patiently until she wasn't distracted.

"What happened last night?"

"Some kids from school jumped me at the Halloween Festival," the brunette explained darkly. "Let's just say they won't try anything else again."

"Rachel," Leroy warned.

"What? I defended myself, I didn't _kill_ them," Rachel muttered childishly.

"That's not the point," Leroy insisted, stopping her from reaching for her phone. "You know humans are breakable, flimsy little things. They won't take this lying down."

"They attacked me," Rachel snapped. "Even if we were regular, normal humans, it wasn't because I'm different, it was because I like Quinn."

Leroy frowned, disapproving with a truth he wouldn't dare say, as Rachel looked down to type a reply, understanding his unspoken thoughts and loathing them entirely.

"Rachel," he said again, but the warning was different this time—cautious, gentle, compassionate. "Should I remind you—"

"No..I've been careful, besides last night," Rachel deflected, leaving out the dance's episode of fury, "but I really, really like her. Please...don't take _this_ away from me."

"I'm not," Leroy countered kindly. "However, you do need to control your strength in order to _stay_ with her. Remember that you're _supposed _to have asthma?"

"Oh. Yes...oops."

"Right. Control yourself, and I won't remind you about...Loric love, okay?" Leroy asked, as Rachel looked sad. "Be happy with Quinn, but understand...it'll be different."

"You mean, she's different...from me."

Leroy was sympathetic. "Humans can fall in love multiple times. We don't. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Leroy, if I didn't know you any better, I'd say that was about my feelings and not my 'soldier' body," Rachel smiled, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Leroy chuckled.

"I have a heart in here somewhere."

"No," Rachel disagreed, half-pitying and half-kind as she grabbed his hand unexpectedly, "it's back with Hiram, where it'll always be."

Leroy didn't argue. He simply looked thoughtful as he nodded in agreement, acquiescing to her statement.

They didn't return to that sensitive topic, only talking about her upcoming training with fire, due to her now-total invulnerability to flames. Leroy was proud; Rachel was delighted. Leroy theorized she'd be able to be submerged in an inferno and walk away unharmed (aside from her hypothetically burned clothes, awkward) unless she inhaled smoke. In addition to those basics, Leroy decided they'd attempt to draw out her telekinesis, saying it was better sooner than later. Rachel wholeheartedly agreed.

"I have to talk to Mike," the brunette declared hesitantly, and Leroy's eyebrows shot up as he cleared the table.

"Why?"

"I think he's upset about the fight," Rachel lied, ignoring the fact that Mike might've seen her using Lumen, "he got hurt, too. He left after we got back from the hayride."

"Okay," Leroy allowed, deliberating. "But promise me, Rachel, that you'll work harder to be careful. No one can know. Not Mike, not even Quinn, do you hear me?"

"Yes," Rachel answered regretfully. "I know."

"Good. Smooth things over with Mike, have fun at Quinn's, but tomorrow, after school, we'll start that fire training, okay?"

"Okay," Rachel nodded, and watched Leroy wander into the living room and flip on the television, and Rachel felt her heart sink with fear. Lying to Leroy was becoming way too easy and on top of that, she knew it would only turn out badly in the end. Mike, for all intents and purposes, could be compiling a list of things about her to expose to the news. He loved aliens, and honestly, she'd been a bit obvious with the alien flicks and crushing right hooks. She wanted to believe her best friend, the boy who'd stuck up for her multiple times when he didn't have to, wouldn't dream of hurting her. However, she lied to him, and on the same hand, closer friends have betrayed each other.

She wondered what he must be think—angry with and avoiding her as the cause of the rumble, or, could be terrified out of his wits at the power he could've seen her do.

Quinn was a different story. Her heartbeat slowed, almost contentedly, at the thought of the blonde. Quinn, well-liked amongst their peers in glee, choose Rachel of all people to kiss—especially with Finn wanting her—and undoubtedly enjoyed it as much as the brunette did. She was already meeting Quinn's family, who apparently were perfectly okay with it as well. A vague memory zoomed back into her brain—Mr. Fabray. Quinn mentioned they were very religious, and hoped it wouldn't be uncomfortable.

She pocketed her phone, and ascended the stairs to her room, throwing on jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, and ambling to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

First she'd deal with Mike, and the other, equally as nerve-wracking things...later.

* * *

"Hello, Rachel," Mrs. Chang greeted politely. "Nice to see you again."

"Hi, Mrs. Chang," Rachel smiled tentatively, biting her lip, "is Mike around?"

"He's in the basement," Mike's mother answered. "He's been a little sick since the Festival last night, so be careful."

Swallowing, Rachel nodded, not bothering to correct her about her son's deceit, and entered the basement, hearing the door shut behind herself. The stairs were dusty and cluttered with odds and ends, and loud background music blared from a television, sound effects like gunshots and muted roars with it. Mike's back was to her, headphones in, and his hands were pummeling an Xbox controller. Rachel recognized the game as Halo, and watched Mike's player, Master Chief, kill the alien species, the Covenant.

Her hands, quick as a flash, plucked the headphones from Mike's ears and scowled as he yelped in surprise, foot catching under the other and toppling to the floor.

"Hey!" He protested, trying to snatch the headphones back, but Rachel held them tighter until Mike relented in fear of breaking them. He glared at her. "What?"

"What's _wrong_ with you?" Rachel demanded, throwing the earpieces at Mike. "Avoiding me?"

"No," he muttered, abandoning the game and stomping to the garage door in the far corner. Rachel followed him, as Mike turned and leaned on a covered vehicle.

"Are you angry with me?" The brunette asked, tone slightly wobbly. "I didn't know those guys would beat us up, Mike. You have to believe me."

He didn't reply, just watched her.

"You know it's because I like Quinn," Rachel went on thickly, feeling tears brew in her eyes, blurring her vision. "I'm sorry you got dragged into it. I am."

Mike sighed.

"If you don't want to be my friend anymore, that's okay...just say so," Rachel mumbled almost hysterically. "I'll just..."

"Don't leave," Mike told her, defeated, and tugged Rachel into a placating embrace. "I wasn't mad at you...well, a little, but more on that in a bit. I was mad at the guys."

"Why? For hitting you?"

"Yes, and hitting girls," Mike exclaimed, vehement. "That's _never_ okay. I thought somebody on that team would have a brain, but I guess not."

His arms released her and Rachel peered up into Mike's eyes carefully.

"Why are you mad at me?"

He seemed to prepare his words before answering, like they were delicate pieces of glass. "I feel like...you've been lying to me."

"I haven't," Rachel protested guiltily. "I just...didn't tell you that I knew karate...?"

Mike's laugh was partially-amused, partially-disbelieving, but he nodded and let it go, much to her relief. "Nice gloves. The shiny ones, I mean."

"Stole 'em, remember?"

"Okay," he said, but her ears sensed a layer of doubt underneath his statement. She ignored it, calmer now that he accepted her lies somewhat, for the moment.

"How are the injuries looking, Rach?" Mike asked.

He scanned her bruised skin below her eye, and stepped away, before handing her an icepack from a small, unnoticed fridge. She smiled in thanks. Her gaze wandered around the garage, to the newspapers clipped to the wall, tools gathering dust on a table, and the tarp covered vehicle. She nodded inquisitively to it, and Mike frowned.

"This was my dad's truck," the dancer explained quietly. "They found it, but not him."

"Where is he?"

"We don't know. He's been gone for awhile now...remember I told you he got me into the alien stuff?"

"Yes," she recalled. "All that talk of Area 51 and UFOs."

Mike smiled sadly. "Yeah. I remember spending all this time with him, and one day, he just left. His wallet, keys, truck...nothing was taken. Mom went ballistic."

"It wasn't like him to act in such a way?" Rachel queried, and Mike shook his head.

"He'd spend hours looking at 'sightings' and 'witness accounts' and shit, but he'd always be around when she asked. He wouldn't have left without a good reason."

"Where did they find his truck?"

"Halfway to Columbus," Mike replied. "The engine was still running. Creepy, huh?"

"Suspicious," Rachel offered, concerned. "Do you think he—"

"Honestly?" Mike questioned, sighing. "Yes. But you'll have to promise not to laugh, okay, Rach?"

"I promise."

Mike regarded her and the truck with cautious eyes, and cleared his throat. "I've goofed off, you know, acting like a weirdo with aliens and stuff, because you've seen how much I like them and how much I actually believe. I do, a lot. I seriously feel it in my gut that there's something out there. My point is, I think my dad was...abducted."

Seeing nothing malicious nor condescending in Rachel's gaze, Mike continued in earnest.

"Why else would there be rumors of abductions? Why else would he disappear without a trace, and there's no evidence to go on? It's just...I believe he was taken."

"I believe you," Rachel conceded truthfully. "It could be possible."

Lorics, frequent visitors of Earth, never abducted anyone on principle. They were sentient, safe individuals, only teaching humans ways to live well and prosper without revealing themselves completely, unless to their enhanced children, the children conceived with one Loric parent, like Aristotle, Einstein, Jefferson, or da Vinci. Rachel knew for a fact that Mogadorians, the power-hungry savages, however, _did_ take humans on occasion, but she did not know why or to what end, aside from cruelty.

Mike's honest belief that his father was abducted couldn't be any closer to the truth, and it probably did happen, for all Rachel knew.

"I believe you," she repeated.

Mike's smile was relieved and wide at the realization of her not calling him insane, and she could tell their friendship was nearly repaired, aside from her not-so-little fib.

She hadn't lost him as a best friend, and the giddy cheer at the thought made her want to jump up and down in excitement, but she didn't.

"Thanks, Rachel," Mike countered gratefully and upon his suggestion of them playing Halo as both sat down in front of the television, his grin turned wicked.

Her lips quirked into a questioning smile in response, but Mike laughed.

"I've been dying to ask you...how are things with Quinn?"

Rachel blushed.

"Tell me!" Mike yelled excitedly, pointing at her flushed skin. "_That's_ not there for no reason! Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!"

"Alright, alright," she grumbled good-naturedly, shoving his shoulder. "I was walking her home from the Festival..."

* * *

It was close to four-thirty when Rachel finally left Mike's basement, having spent the entire afternoon playing videogames and watching his endless supply of movies. Mrs. Chang had shaken her head at the two, urging them to go outside, because winter would be here before they knew it, but her words fell on deaf ears and distracted minds. Mike, in his boyish immaturity, made vulgar suggestions when she was leaving, making both Rachel and Mrs. Chang give him a slap upside the head, but he kept laughing.

He surrendered when his mother threatened his Xbox and Rachel threatened his favorite DVDs, and Mike's smugness at her kiss with Quinn was depleted, for now.

She'd run home, her nerves making her crash headlong through the front door, and Leroy himself could barely stand up from his seat, his laughs were so paralyzing.

She'd sulked, ignoring his chuckles when she left, trying uselessly to retain some of her dignity, but the endeavor was pointless. There _was_ a Rachel-sized hole at her house.

_Men,_ Rachel thought sourly, rolling her eyes. _Juvenile vagabonds._

She straightened her skirt and adjusted her blouse—having dressed up at home—and gulped, and rang the doorbell of Quinn's house, anxiety bubbling in her stomach.

The sound of the door hinges swinging open was lost on Rachel when she felt a pair of eager lips on her own, and opened her eyes lazily to see Quinn wearing a bright smile.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Quinn's arms unexpectedly encircled her waist, and Rachel blinked, surprised at the gesture. Hands, hands in new places, apparently. She didn't mind.

"I have a question for you," the blonde murmured, trailing electric touches along her spine. Rachel felt goosebumps materializing on her back, and shivered madly.

"Okay," she breathed.

"It's simple, really," Quinn went on, smiling soothingly. "I just need something to _call_ you before we go inside."

"My name?" Rachel suggested dumbly, hopelessly distracted by the lightest of caresses on her waist, like static shocks. "It's Rachel?"

She felt Quinn's amused laughter rumble against her chest and pouted, while Quinn struggled to stop giggling and control herself.

"No, no," she said adoringly, flashing a grin, "I meant, how do I introduce you? Would you...like to be my girlfriend?"

"Yes," the brunette answered slowly. "That's why you kissed me, did you not?"

Quinn laughed again at Rachel's absentmindedness.

"You're cute," she grinned, tugging her into the house. "Come on, I'll introduce you."

Rachel was pulled into the living room, where two men and two women sat, chatting enthusiastically over a football game, ceased abruptly upon spotting her with Quinn.

She could feel their curiosity like a separate, corporeal being, both of her and the black-and-blue on her cheek, but each human, all bred to be tactful, said nothing of it. The air seemed warm and hospitable, with an undercurrent of cool expectation and apathy, seeming to linger around Mr. Fabray, and the third blonde woman, furthest away.

"This is Rachel, everyone," Quinn volunteered with a sunny smile, oblivious to Rachel's nervousness. Mrs. Fabray—Rachel wryly recognized her from last night—stood up first, and halfway through Rachel extending her hand, yanked her into a suffocating (surprisingly, for powerful Loric lungs) hug, while Quinn watched silently off to the side.

"Hello, I'm Judy," Mrs. Fabray beamed, releasing her. "It's a pleasure to meet you, finally! Quinnie smiles so _much_ whenever she mentions you."

Rachel smiled back and Judy indicated for her to sit on the couch, sandwiched between the arm and a red-faced Quinn. One of the men, older and blonde, cleared his throat.

"Nice to meet you, Rachel," Russell remarked quietly, and they shook hands quickly before Russell's eyes slid automatically back to his youngest daughter.

The other man, Joe, introduced himself with a kind smile, and Frannie, Quinn's older sister, did the same, looking hesitant and blank. Rachel caught Quinn's sister shifting uneasily, looking uncomfortable, and noticed the habitual pulling of a necklace at her throat. The brunette's gaze spotted a minuscule, shiny cross and deduced the truth—Quinn _had_ admitted her family used to be very religious, and were adapting to...Rachel's presence. Judy, adjusted to her first, along with Joe, the friendly but distant-from-drama brother in law. Russell's solemnity meant he was trying hard, as Quinn had explained, and Frannie, raised in such a strict upbringing, was last, but also trying as well.

At least the five of them had a common goal; Quinn's happiness, which happened to be with Rachel, at the moment.

"Shall we eat? Dinner's ready," Judy suggested tentatively, and the three pairs drifted into the dining room and sat down, Quinn on Rachel's right and Joe on the left.

Food was passed around, while Quinn answered her mother's questions about her photographs taken at the Festival, while Rachel ladled gravy onto her turkey.

The inevitable swing of conversation switched to an interest about Rachel, and she felt Quinn's foot brush her own, almost reassuringly.

"So, Rachel, Quinn says your father's a writer?" Judy inquired, and Rachel nodded.

"He writes...uh, political things," the brunette hedged. "Opinion articles, mostly."

"Any preference?" Russell asked her. Quinn snickered into her food and Russell's eyebrows drew together expectantly.

"He's...a Democrat?" Rachel squeaked in a panic, and Quinn coughed, cheeks coloring in a desperate attempt not to laugh. "But _I'm_...independent."

Russell understood his daughter's mirth and grinned a bit, while Joe hid a chuckle behind his drink. Judy beamed cheerfully, while Frannie smiled tightly.

"That's fine. Everyone's entitled to an opinion," Quinn's father offered amicably. "I'll respect that."

"Quinn says you sing beautifully," Judy interjected, when Russell had said his piece. "Did you take any lessons?"

"No, I didn't have t-time," Rachel answered, feeling Quinn's foot brush again against hers, teasingly. "My dad is...spontaneous," she lied. "He likes to move for...inspiration."

If only Leroy could see her now—fabricating a lie worthy of champions. Judy looked mildly impressed.

"He's writing a novel, too," Rachel added, fumbling for more to go on about. "It's a secret, though. He hasn't let me read it yet."

"Most authors do that," Joe interrupted agreeably. "I've heard a few are very self-conscious about their work until they've proofread it multiple times."

Rachel nodded, and silence followed, aside from the gentle clinking of silverware, until Frannie broke it, avoiding a loaded, persistently pointed look from Judy.

"Rachel," Frannie said, words sounding heavy and careful, like she didn't really want to ask anyway, "I've heard you borrowed one of Quinn's cameras."

"Yes, she lent it to me," Rachel replied kindly, taking pity on her. "I'm on the last shot. I haven't decided what I want to take yet."

Quinn brightened. "Have you done any landscapes, Rach? We should go back to Shepherd Falls!"

"Quinn, what were you doing at Shepherd Falls?"

The youngest blonde looked repentantly at Russell, but her father continued, a stern expression on his face.

"That's too far away for just the two of you," he warned. "You could've gotten lost out there in the woods. Still, Quinn, why were you there in the first place?"

Rachel's hand on her girlfriend's—she's flail about _that_ later—wrist made Quinn pause, and the brunette spoke up for them both. "It was...a detour on the hayride, sir."

Five pairs of eyes snapped to her own, and she hastily elaborated, practically feeling Quinn's increasing embarrassment and a flush burning up her own neck.

"Oh! No, not, um, _that,_" she squeaked awkwardly, turning pink in mortification. "It was just a few of the football players. They've been...harassing me at school."

"Why?" Frannie demanded, gaze lingering on Quinn in a protective way, sidling to Rachel's in a watered down version of it seconds later. "Who?"

"Finn...Hudson doesn't like me," Rachel answered reluctantly, knowing she just stepped into dangerous territory in her explanation. "It's really not a—"

"Harassment is always a big deal," Judy urged softly, eyeing her. "Did _he_ do that, Rachel?"

"No! No, no...it was a cheerleader," Rachel responded at once. "I think. A bunch of people attacked me, so—"

"What?" Russell thundered in outrage, making Rachel flinch and Quinn drop her fork in shock, eyes widening. "They _attacked _you?"

"I'm okay," Rachel insisted in a high-pitched squeak. "I took everyone down anyway, but—"

"Everyone?" Joe exclaimed, impressed. "Damn."

"Yeah," Rachel mumbled. "I was the last one standing, and then I had to chase after Quinn, too."

"Why?" Judy asked. "I'm a little lost, here, anyone else?"

"I'll explain it, Mom," Quinn acknowledged patiently. "The football team took Finn's side because he still likes me—don't look at me like that, Dad—and decided to play a prank. We got out of the funhouse and they just jumped Rachel and Mike out of nowhere while they brought me to Finn at Shepherd Falls. Rachel and Mike came after."

"What did you do next?" Frannie asked, caught up in the story. "Did you stop him?"

"Oh," Rachel replied, bashful. "I almost broke Finn's arm because I was so angry, but then Quinn stopped me."

"Darn," Russell grumbled. "That boy thinks he's God's gift to Lima with his second rate playing skills. I could throw better than him and I'm twice his size and weight."

The atmosphere seemed to relax at the image of Rachel going kamikaze on a boy was annoying Quinn, and dinner ended soon smoothly after without further awkwardness.

Rachel and Quinn were allowed in the blonde's room ("Door open, Quinnie!") although it felt strange to be alone with several parental figures just below and not a group of partying glee teammates. Rachel remembered with slight embarrassment their almost-kiss, but Quinn smiled at Rachel and pulled her to sit down next to her on the bed.

"They like you," Quinn commented brightly. "Good."

"I think me saving you sold it," Rachel teased. "Hook, line, and sinker."

Quinn huffed. "I won't be the damsel in distress all the time!"

_Probably will be, _Rachel thought_. _

"I don't know," Rachel mused, grinning. "You could be my Lois Lane."

"What would _you_ be? Kara Zor-El/Supergirl?" Quinn grumbled. "Unfair. All Lois does is work at the _Daily Planet_."

"But," Rachel wheedled, "you wouldn't need a Jimmy Olsen. You could write articles and take your own pictures."

"Hypothetically," Quinn replied, lips quirking into a smile. "You'd be saving the world while I putter around, digging for information for the next headline."

_Way, way too close,_ Rachel thought, panicky. _New topic._

"So...how should we handle, um, this," Rachel offered nonchalantly, fingers entwining to hold Quinn's as a deterrent, "at school?"

"Honestly?" Quinn shrugged with the barest hint of a smirk on her features. "Everyone can fuck off, if they want."

"Finn won't be happy."

"Finn's probably black and blue all over, and all those Cheerios and football players, too. Where'd you learn how to fight like that? Secret training on Mount Kilimanjaro?"

"You caught me," Rachel joked. Quinn giggled, leaning over to press a kiss on Rachel's cheek, eyes alight with care.

"Mike knows about us already," the brunette murmured contentedly. Quinn looked amused.

"That doesn't surprise me. You two are as thick as thieves."

"Mike calls us 'Changberry'," Rachel chuckled. "It's not very original."

Quinn let the conversation drop, twirling a tress of Rachel's hair around her finger, becoming solemn again. Rachel caught the swing of her mood as it darkened, curious.

"What's up, Quinn?" Rachel asked softly. "You look upset."

"I was thinking about...the fight," the blonde admitted, reluctant. "Cool and awesome as you were last night with the punching and stuff, it's not okay to let them get away with it. I can't do much anymore because I'm not on the squad, but I do want to talk to my dad about pressing charges. Everyone should be suspended, at least—"

"No."

"What?"

"I don't want to press charges, Quinn," Rachel told her firmly. "I'm sorry, but I just don't."

"Why?" Quinn demanded, and immediately looked guilty. "Sorry. I just don't understand you there, Rachel. Boys _hit_ you! Girls, I understand, but _guys_? Football players?"

"It's my decision," Rachel replied, quiet. "Please don't talk to your father. I don't want this to get out."

"Why not?" Quinn asked desperately. "Rachel...I just don't want to see them walking around McKinley without some sort of punishment. They hurt you."

"They won't say anything," Rachel responded. "The entire group got beat up by a girl of my size, and it was off school property. The most they'll get is theft of the goggles."

Quinn sighed.

Rachel pursed her lips.

She should remain as elusive as possible. An investigation like this would leave evidence, and evidence brings suspicion.

"I'm not trying to make you angry, Quinn, but this is my decision and I hope you'll respect it and do as I ask, please. I want this kept under wraps."

_If I didn't, Leroy would be apoplectic and we'd be halfway to Nevada with seconds to spare._

Quinn was silent for a few minutes, before she relented...sort of. "At least let me get Santana to slushie a few cheerleaders. Please?"

"I'll presume Noah would do the rest of your dirty work?" Rachel guessed, humor returning to her gaze. Quinn smiled lightly, tension relaxing from her shoulders.

"Maybe."

"Well, lately," Rachel smiled, teasing, "I've been distracted by this amazingly beautiful blonde, and I haven't noticed anything else going on in the hallways because I'm always looking for her," the brunette continued, watching a mischievous laugh escape Quinn's mouth, "so, I don't think I would _notice_ a slushie attack. Sincere apologies."

"Hmm. Yeah, you'd probably miss a few pranks, too," Quinn added playfully. "That hot blonde keeping you interested must be pretty special."

"Extraordinary," Rachel offered sincerely, and Quinn blushed.

"Stop being cute."

"If you stop being so sweet, but, alas, some things will never happen, will they?"

"You're such a dork," Quinn sighed happily, giving Rachel a quick kiss. "My little cute dork."

"I'd reproach you for making a pass at my height, but you're swooning, so I'll leave you alone."

"I did _not_ swoon!"

"Okay," Rachel jeered. Quinn punched her arm, and withdrew, wagging her hand to jog the circulation again. "Jesus! Are your guns made of steel?"

"What do you expect, _Lois_?"

* * *

Rachel walked home—she seemed to walk home from Quinn's very often—as she declined ride after ride orders from a clucking Judy, and saw Russell quietly smiling at her. She'd been pleased to impress Quinn's family enough, even Frannie, who looked genuinely interested in her movie preferences and explanations, while Joe peppered her with questions about her video game indulgences. She and Quinn had returned downstairs, and she'd lingered for another half-hour before leaving, receiving a dizzying kiss from her girlfriend—she was _still _getting used to that, appreciating the leap of enthusiasm in her chest—for the trouble, and the buzzed, warm feeling remained for hours.

Leroy sounded like he was restraining laughter at her description of Judy's mother hen tendencies, chuckling that Rachel needed that, once and awhile.

"She did sound like a chicken," Rachel mused thoughtfully. Leroy burst out laughing as Rachel grumbled, outraged at the mockery.

"That's not what I meant," her Cêpan cackled. "Oh, Rachel. You're too much sometimes."

"Glad I could amuse you," the brunette huffed. "You and Quinn should be best pals."

"She should come over for dinner, if you wanted," Leroy suggested swiftly, and Rachel's eyes narrowed.

"Well played."

"I thought so."

Her phone vibrated with a text as Rachel climbed the stairs to her bedroom, and she peered at the screen, a grin lighting up her face.

_Thinkin' of you's workin' up my appetite. Looking forward to a little afternoon delight. :D :D_

_Quinn Fabray...how dare you!_

_Stay classy, Rachel. I'll see you tomorrow! ;)_

Rachel laughed, and shook her head, placing her phone next her pillow, and fell asleep with a smile that refused to disappear, not once.

* * *

Rachel was reaching for a textbook in her locker the next, when a limb agilely materialized near her ear, and placed the book in her arms and a light kiss on her cheek.

"Hi," Quinn beamed.

"Hi," Rachel smiled widely.

"It's so fluffy, I gonna die," Santana sneered, flouncing past, pinkie linked with Brittany's. Rachel smirked.

"Santana, you exposed yourself as a geek before, but now you admit you watched _Despicable Me_?"

"Brittany made me watch it," Santana retorted in embarrassment, looking irritable. She tugged her own blonde around a corner, and Brittany followed, smiling in adoration.

"Whipped," Quinn snickered.

"Quinn, could you hold my books and walk me to class?" Rachel asked promptly, and Quinn acquiesced before she realized her mistake.

"That's _low,_" Quinn complained, watching Rachel's smirk widen noticeably and shifting the position of Rachel's binders in her arms. "Unbelievable."

"Unbelievably nauseating, I'll have to agree," a voice interrupted, and both girls turned to look in horror and trepidation at the dangerously smiling face of Sue Sylvester.

Sue's smile turned colder, and she extended a hand, pointing in the direction of Figgins's office. Rachel's throat tightened in terror, as Quinn looked wary.

"Principal's office," the Cheerio coach commanded. "Now_._"

"Why?" Rachel dared to ask, bravado vanishing instantly as Sue's smile morphed into an incredibly frigid glower, inciting fear all the way down to Rachel's shaking knees.

"We'll be discussing your expulsion, Berry. I wouldn't get too comfortable."

* * *

**Did anyone notice my _Buffy_ reference? If you did, kudos! **

**News...I'm planning to write a Brittana fic soon! Hooray! Faberry won't disappear from me—blasphemy!—but I'm excited to try something new!**

**Thanks for reading!**


	9. Misfortune

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Rachel/Quinn, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee,_ nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**'Ello, 'ello. Update on the horizon_. _Sorry, lame pirate reference. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

Rachel could barely breathe. Quinn kept sending her anxious glances as they marched to Figgins's office, Sue Sylvester hovering just behind the two, but the brunette maintained a fixed gaze on her sneakers, struggling to relax. For the umpteenth time, Rachel cursed her own stupidity and inability to calm down. Finn and the others had no doubt fabricated a lengthy story, twisted to paint themselves as innocent and randomly attacked in the woods by the secretive new girl. No-win situation in at any angle.

How could she wriggle her way out? If they ruled her expulsion, Leroy would definitely transfer to somewhere remote (after erasing the evidence of their existence in Lima as Rachel and Leroy Berry, of course) and she'd have to leave Quinn behind. Her heart twinged and writhed uncomfortably at the thought of not seeing the blonde again.

Sue gestured the pair into the office, and Rachel took the left seat, while Quinn took the right. Sue sat on the couch, looking smug.

Rachel swallowed noisily as Figgins and the other male in the room ceased speaking. Rachel's eyes lingered on the man's badge, identifying him as the sheriff of Lima. _Fuck._

"Good morning, Ms. Berry," Figgins greeted her.

"Principal Figgins," she replied cordially, hearing her voice quaver. The sheriff eyed her with speculative disdain, gaze lowering pointedly to her hands, still slightly bruised.

"You must know why we've asked you here," Figgins prompted. "You, among other children, were involved in a scuffle on Saturday, correct?"

"Yes."

"In total, four were sent to the hospital," the sheriff interrupted coolly. "They got roughed up bad. By you."

"In my defense, sir, I—"

"You also fractured my son's jaw," the man continued, cold anger in his tone. Quinn flinched. Rachel felt her hands dig into the wood of her chair, making small, irate divots.

"He provoked me," Rachel returned stiffly. "I bet he didn't say that, did he?"

"That's no excuse," Mr. Karofsky spat. "In my opinion, you should be paying his medical bills...all of their medical bills, actually, when I think about it."

"You haven't heard my side of the story," Rachel burst out, indignation and suppressed rage boiling hot in her veins. Her hands seared, almost warningly. "Let _me_ talk."

"If I may, Ms. Berry," Figgins interjected, "your testimony won't do much for your case..."

"Guilty, guilty, guilty," Sue added, a nasty gleam in her eyes. "_Sorry_."

"Hey!" Quinn protested, speaking up for the first time as her hands curled into fists. "This isn't fair! Rachel deserves to explain herself!"

"She did it!" Mr. Karofsky roared, visage turning an ugly shade of red. "She doesn't have the right!"

"Are you serious?" Rachel yelled, jumping to her feet. "This goes against any court system! Innocent until _proven _guilty! It's in the Constitution, for God's sakes!"

"Tough shit," Mr. Karofsky shrugged uncaringly, straightening his badge. Figgins sent him a disapproving glare, looking indecisive.

"I'm reporting this," Rachel declared loudly, thrusting a hand at Mr. Karofsky and Figgins, profanity slipping into her vernacular. "What kind of _fucking_ shitshow is this? You don't let me defend myself, after ambushing me out of the blue for something you don't have all the facts for! And the police aren't fair? WHAT THE ACTUAL F—"

"Berry!" Sue shouted. "Sit down!"

"No, I won't! I won't sit down!" Rachel bellowed. "You three aren't allowed to do this! Where's my father, anyway? We should get a say in this before you do anything!"

"ACLU!" Quinn blurted out, silencing the other four and all eyes roved to her face. "Rachel was attacked, fought in self-defense, because...it was a hate crime."

Rachel felt her stomach clench into a knot. Quinn was playing _that_ card? The Loric teenager mused two results—the claim to be taken very seriously, or not believed at all.

"Right," Mr. Karofsky snorted. Quinn glowered.

"Finn and the others don't like Rachel and I together," the blonde sneered—Sue looked almost approving at the reappearance of Quinn's vivacity, dormant for awhile—with a darkening expression. "Rachel's my girlfriend now, and she's been regularly harassed since arriving at McKinley. Apparently, your football players don't like the gays."

"I've gotten slushied by your son," Rachel growled, pointing angrily at Mr. Karofsky. "And he dumped the punch bowl on us at the Halloween dance. He started everything."

"He—"

"_He_ helped Finn Hudson put manure in my locker," the brunette continued resentfully, watching Figgins look ashamed and uncomfortable. "I won't stay quiet anymore."

"Quiet?" Sue snorted. "What are you talking about, Berry?"

"I'll just sue the school if you expel me," Rachel finished simply, just as Leroy barged into the office, eyes stony and mouth in a firm line.

Rachel's anxiety melted into a satisfied reprieve—Leroy would save her, like always. He knew how the system worked, and how to..._persuade_ stupid humans like these two.

"I just got a call from the secretary," Leroy announced, icy as he gently nudged Rachel back into her seat, waiting until the brunette complied. "She's getting expelled?"

"Well, it seems—" Figgins began, but had not experienced a hurricane of Leroy's persistence before, and was quickly silenced. Rachel's lips quirked into a taunting leer.

"It seems like you've been ignoring the complaints about bullying here," Leroy interjected smoothly, confident in his reasoning. "How are you still in employment, Figgins?"

"I..."

"Exactly," Leroy nodded, seeing Quinn mouth a few words and acknowledged his understanding, "and you've allowed this harassment to my daughter and her girlfriend."

"Hold on a minute," Figgins tried, but no avail; Leroy was on a roll, and wouldn't relent until he was finished with his opinion. For once, Rachel treasured the trait.

"The students involved attacked Rachel first," Leroy went on, contemptuous. "She and Quinn got off the hayride, along with Mike Chang, and were jumped. Rachel fought them off in self defense, too. Your interviews with the other students are undoubtedly false, and lastly, Mr. Karofsky, haven't you missed a few night-vision goggles?"

"Yes?"

"I'd assume the ones missing are still being held by the girls and boys who used them to navigate around Shepherd Falls. They _should_ be punished for theft and assault."

"Let's slow down," Figgins declared nervously, loosing his tie in an effort to remain collected and in control. "You're right, Mr. Berry."

"Of course they are," Quinn snapped, rolling her eyes in frustration. "Where've you been?"

"Let's not forget," Rachel added, "they attacked me outside, meaning this argument is _pointless_ because it was on the weekend and out of McKinley High boundaries."

"Let's see," Leroy smiled rudely, "you three cooked up a plot to punish Rachel because your favorites and your son cried wolf without hearing the other side of the story."

Mr. Karofsky looked furious at that.

Figgins looked upset and trapped, clearly desperate for some feasible solution, mouth opening and closing.

Sue studied the ceiling, aloof as ever and deliberately appearing unfazed by the proceedings. Leroy leaned back in his chair, waiting patiently.

Leroy twiddled his thumbs, verbalizing threats like "ACLU" and "lawsuit" every few seconds, looking pleased with himself as Figgins squirmed in his seat, panicky.

Rachel and Quinn glanced at each other, anger dissipating as their eyes met. The result was obvious—Figgins just needed to stammer it out. Rachel felt the tension draining from her body, from both Quinn's support and the glaringly palpable conclusion of the argument as her fear disappeared as if hadn't existed. This meeting was an attempted scare-force-into-submission confrontation, where she was expected to accept her punishment and be expelled for a 'crime' she'd let worriedly fester for the entire weekend.

Mr. Karofsky wanted retribution, Sue wanted something for something for the injuries given to her cheerleaders, and Figgins had just been easily swayed into this situation.

Mr. Karofsky grunted his next point.

"David's still injured. I want action on that."

"You won't get any," Rachel shrugged, previous terror gone and replaced by disdain. "The odds are stacked against you and the best your son will get is community service."

"This won't go on your record, but from now on, we'll be keeping an eye on you, kid," Mr. Karofsky warned pompously, regarding her like a dangerous criminal. "You'll—"

"—be treated fairly like any other Lima resident," Leroy cut him off, eyes narrowing in challenge. "We wouldn't want our sheriff to be fired for abusing his power, would we?"

Mr. Karofsky ground his teeth audibly, not daring to refute the statement and Figgins sighed, defeated.

"The students involved will be suspended," the principal volunteered weakly. "Is that acceptable?"

"No," Sue muttered irritably.

"No," Mr. Karofsky shrugged. "_She_ should be."

"Yes," Leroy answered pleasantly, ignoring the other replies, and Figgins looked relieved, avoiding the fuming glares from his colleagues. "At least ten days each."

"Ten days?" Sue repeated, irate. "No! I need my Cheerios!"

"Dave and the others need to practice," Mr. Karofsky thundered. "How else is are they getting into college?"

"They're not," Quinn mumbled helpfully. "Shit for brains."

"They should've thought about that before they attacked me," Rachel added. "As Mr. Karofsky eloquently put it, 'tough shit' for the both of you. Life's not fair, right?"

Quinn snickered. Leroy looked amused, a triumphant air about him, edging toward arrogance. Rachel flashed her Cêpan a thankful, relieved smile, and received one in reply.

Mr. Karofsky and Sue wore matching grimaces.

"Well...you may go," Figgins proclaimed awkwardly, clearing his throat. "They'll be...dealt with accordingly. Sorry to...disturb you, Ms. Berry."

"Great," Leroy nodded coldly, superior as the three 'accused' rose to their feet. "Let's hope something of this idiocy and favoritism doesn't happen again."

* * *

"I'm shaking...still," Quinn admitted later, an uncontrollable giggle escaping her lips. Rachel smiled placatingly, wrapping her hands around Quinn's neck.

"Relax. I did."

"How?"

"I thought about spending time with you," Rachel told her. "It worked."

"That does work," Quinn acquiesced, playing absently with the belt-loops of Rachel's jeans. "I thought I'd have a heart attack in there. You were almost expelled."

"Leroy saves the day," the brunette smiled. "He rocks, doesn't he?"

"Mhmm. Otherwise, we couldn't _canoodle_ anymore, if we weren't at the same school," Quinn offered playfully, and Rachel laughed.

"How _is_ Mrs. Anderson doing?"

"She told me to cut the PDA," Quinn grumbled, a crease settling between her eyes. "Free country...what an old hag."

"I'll assume your neighbors are just as curious," Rachel grinned.

"Totally. The Johnsons are giving me pamphlets...ones that I _refuse_ to describe," Quinn shuddered, a blush blooming on her cheeks. "Not pretty."

Rachel's reply was drowned out by a bark of laughter in the previously empty hallway, and both girls turned to see Mike, eyes dancing in delight.

"Don't you two look cozy," the boy crowed. "Hey, everyone! Check _this_ out!"

The rest of the glee club, on their way to the auditorium to run through a Sectionals routine, sent smirks and whistles, and in Santana's case, a mischievous sneer.

Finn was conspicuously absent, making a satisfied smirk climb on Quinn's pale features.

"Nice job, Berry. I'll bet all the cheerleaders will be just as scared of you as they are of me," the Latina commented. "I approve."

"I still can't believe you took down six people," Mercedes remarked, impressed. "Ninja."

"Um, hello?" Mike interrupted, following the group into the auditorium with sulky expression. "I'm the ninja."

"Sure you are, Skywalker," Mercedes shrugged, holding up her hand before Mike could squeak out his surprise, "no, I am not a geek. Do not ask for my opinion on aliens."

Rachel laughed quietly, sitting down in the front row with Quinn, as the others filed in, while Mr. Schue wandered over to start his instructions.

"Where's Finn?" The teacher asked, confused. His students exchanged exasperated looks.

"Mr. Schue, where have you been all day?" Puck demanded. "You'd know this."

"Lunch."

"With Ms. Pillsbury," Tina prompted, and the director blushed, averting his eyes. "Anyway, Rachel escaped suspension and got a bunch of people in trouble, thank God."

"What? Why?" Mr. Schue inquired, glancing at Rachel whispering in Quinn's ear. "What happened?"

"Finn organized a blitz on Rachel," Santana explained. "Six on one at the Halloween Festival hayride."

Brittany frowned, sidling a protective look toward the short brunette in question.

"Are you all right, Rachel?"

"Of course," was the breezy answer, the girl too busy listening to Quinn mutter a question, and nodding as her reply. The blonde brightened.

"But how did you—" Mr. Schue started.

"My best friend is a badass," Mike announced simply. "She beat the shit outta them. She knows karate."

"Serves 'em right," Puck grumbled. "You don't hit Jews. I'm organizing a slushie counterattack. Let's bring out the big guns. Slushie Armageddon, Puckerone style."

"I'm in," Quinn piped up, much to Rachel's resigned amusement.

"Me too," Kurt agreed.

"Dibs on Finn," Santana called, and loud protests were quickly shushed by the Latina's steely glower. Rachel's smile widened at the sight of her friends—real friends, ones that _cared_—planning to defend her honor. _Moving to Lima was unreal_, the brunette thought. Here, she was already assimilated into a group, got to sing frequently, learned a Legacy to almost mastered level, and best of all, got an absolutely perfect girlfriend in the process. Feeling Quinn lean over again to whisper in her ear, Rachel smiled.

"So, you'll ask your father about Thanksgiving?" Quinn murmured when Mr. Schue began to explain their setlist for Sectionals, about a month away.

"Yup," Rachel answered. "We don't do anything, usually, so it'll be fun to go to your house and actually partake in the holiday."

"And pig out," Quinn mused. "Mom's an awesome cook. I hope Leroy can make it."

"I'll make sure he will."

* * *

"Balance," Leroy ordered. "Concentrate."

Rachel, poised high on the couch frame, kept her eyes squeezed shut, a heavy encyclopedia on her head, keeping the equilibrium precise.

"I look ridiculous."

"This isn't about how you look," Leroy countered patiently. "It's about agility and coordination."

"Leroy, I'm balancing on a couch with a book on my head," Rachel complained. "How is this training?"

"I'm waiting for your new hazmat suit to arrive in the mail," Leroy muttered crossly. "It's taking longer than expected."

"Yeah," Rachel mocked, opening her eyes and grinning at her Cêpan, "where'd you get it? Amazon?"

"No."

"Target?"

"Some lab safety website," Leroy grumbled, embarrassed. "We need it for your training, Rachel. This isn't funny."

"Nope," Rachel teased. "Not funny at all, no sir."

Leroy mumbled something offensive and handed her another book, and Rachel placed both on her head, holding herself on the couch back like a tightrope walker.

"By the way, you totally rock for preventing my expulsion," Rachel remarked, edging further down the frame, arms extended to spot herself. "Figgins looked terrified."

"I am pretty impressionable," Leroy commented with a straight face. "You'll learn to be as fantastic as me one day."

Rachel giggled.

"I wanted to ask you," the brunette offered sometime later, tentatively, "if you wouldn't mind going with me to Quinn's for Thanksgiving dinner."

Leroy sighed.

"Please?" Rachel wheedled. "Mrs. Fabray is an awesome cook, you know—all you order is takeout, like all week."

"Maybe," Leroy muttered grudgingly. "What backstory did you make up?"

"You're a Democrat."

"Hmm."

"And you're a novelist in the making, but you're so prideful, you won't let me read any of this so-called masterpiece and kept it secret from each of our nonexistent family."

"You must've been under a lot of pressure," Leroy observed, amused. "That sounds like bullshit."

"It was bullshit," Rachel agreed, opening her eyes again and grimacing. "I blurted out anything that came to mind, actually."

"So...I shouldn't mention Barack Obama to Mr. Fabray?" Leroy quipped, and Rachel coughed.

"No—according to Quinn, he's very Republican. I'd talk about...the economy?"

"I think I can handle it," Leroy smiled. "You and Quinn can talk about something while pretending you aren't really hoping to escape the table and—"

"Leroy!" Rachel yelped, jumping down from the couch with the precision of an acrobat and scowling at him all before the books clattered to the ground. "_Seriously_?"

"I'm middle-aged, not blind, Rachel. It's obvious. Whenever I say, 'Quinn', your eyes lit up like an Earth child's on Christmas Day."

"I am not obvious," Rachel blushed.

"Sure you aren't," Leroy replied knowingly. "Anyway, let's go outside. I have more practice for you."

"Am I ripping a tree from the roots again?" Rachel questioned eagerly.

"Yes."

"Sweet."

* * *

_"What's your name?"_

_"Isaac Ghazi."_

_"Where are you from?"_

_"Bintulu, most recently."_

_"Strange accent."_

_"We move around a lot."_

_His Cêpan looked speculative. "You need to work on your lying technique. It's lacking. Otherwise, anyone would see you as a normal human."_

_One breathed a sigh of relief._

_"How long will we be here?" Isaac asked, and watched his Cêpan—using the pseudonym 'Silas'—frown, brows furrowing to what looked like gloomy resignation._

_"I don't know. The others are still out there. We'll have to meet up eventually, but..."_

_"What?" Isaac inquired. _

_Silas looked hesitant. "As you know, C__ê_pans are prone to dreams. Dreams that offer warnings and sensitivity to a problem. I had one last night."

_"And?"_

_"The Mogadorians are here on Earth," Silas murmured gravely, as Isaac looked horrified. "They followed us. Took them awhile, but I can sense their fervor...their greed."_

_"Greed?" Isaac repeated, confused. "Greed for what?"_

_"Greed to kill us all, just like everyone else on Lorien," Silas answered. "And something else...pertaining to Earth."_

_"What do they want?" Isaac wondered, tugging reflexively on his identifying necklace, inscribed with his name in Loric. "They have Lorien."_

_"I'm not sure," Silas admitted. "But I have a basic idea."_

* * *

Rachel stretched her muscles, blinking sleep from her eyes and recalling the image last in her mind; One. His skin looked olive-colored, with dark, vividly cocoa eyes.

She compared herself to him, and if the boy was still alive, she'd call the two of them twins, knowing it would pass by anyone who happened to glance at them.

Already, she was receiving visions of the first Loric teenager, and her stomach felt queasy. Three, Two...she didn't want to see another, and yet, One clung to her thoughts.

Her meditation was interrupted by a text from Quinn, and Rachel smiled a little.

_Hey._

_Hello, Quinn._

_Coming to school, Sleeping Beauty? I'm outside__—_I'll drive. :)

Rachel beamed and got dressed, brushed her teeth, grabbing an apple from the basket, snagged her backpack, and called out a goodbye to Leroy, all in record time.

"Hi," Quinn greeted, and Rachel gave her a quick kiss, watching in amusement as Quinn looked distracted, before shifting the car gears and blinking profusely.

"I'm starting to suspect you _really_ like kissing me," Rachel snickered, and Quinn grumbled quietly.

"And the Bluntest Girlfriend of the Year Award goes to..."

"Rachel Berry!" Rachel cheered mockingly, waving regally out her window and blowing kisses, and received quite a few stares in response as Quinn giggled.

"Loser."

"Look at it this way...who is more of a loser_—_the loser herself or the person _dating_ the loser?"

"I...moron," Quinn lamented in defeat when she'd struggled to think of a retort, and grinned. "You think of the weirdest things, Berry."

"Well, one weird thing isn't that I got my father to agree to Thanksgiving..."

"Then you're actually awesome," Quinn sighed, sending her an appreciative smile. "Mom kept bugging me. She considered looking Leroy up to ask herself."

_Wouldn't find him,_ Rachel thought. _That's covered._

"Really?" She asked instead. "Your mom must be_—_"

"Annoying as hell, but she's great," Quinn replied. "She likes you a lot."

"Because?"

"Because she likes me happy," Quinn answered sincerely, linking their hands when the duo arrived at McKinley. "And _you_ make me very happy."

* * *

Rachel's minuscule bubble of giddiness abruptly popped when they stepped inside and into the hallway, where a tense atmosphere grew from nowhere, because of her.

The cheerleaders, ones she hadn't noticed since yesterday, looked frightened and skittish at her presence, turning to look into lockers and whispering urgently.

She didn't like it_—_she wasn't the bully, they were. Rachel guessed that stooping to their level made them all spooked and fearing another attack.

"This is why listening to Finn Hudson is a dumb idea," Quinn growled under her breath, thoughts aligned with Rachel's, as the two went to the blonde's locker.

"They're scared of me," Rachel murmured. "That's never happened to _me_ before."

"It'll wear off," Quinn soothed. "No one's scared of me anymore. I used to be a _huge_ bitch, like I said, and now...I'm normal. It'll fade eventually, don't worry about it."

"Do you think they'll slushie us or Mike?"

"Nah. Karofsky's been beat up by you twice. Boys might be slower and less mature than girls, but they're not entirely brainless. That's like kicking a lion in the face."

Rachel raised an incredulous eyebrow.

"Sorry, bad analogy. I watched the Discovery Channel last night," Quinn admitted, blushing slightly. "Dad loves it, so we watch it together."

"You're cute," Rachel joked, reiterating Quinn's statement from Sunday, and the blonde grinned.

Rachel gallantly swiped the books from Quinn's hands as they walked to class, only to find their path blocked by one Sue Sylvester.

"Tubby. Streisand."

"Ms. Sylvester," Quinn acknowledged, undeterred. "What is it now?"

"I just wanted to inform you two that your little half-baked escape from expulsion did not fool me," Sue declared, eyes narrowed. "You _will_ get consequences."

"What does that mean?" Rachel prompted tiredly, looking bored. "In plain English, please."

"It means that your actions will affect my Cheerios, two in particular," Sue countered. "Santana and Brittany will have practices akin to Hell on Earth, from now on."

"Because of me?" Rachel guessed, unimpressed, and Sue nodded solemnly, shaking her head as if appalled with Rachel's audacity and mistakes.

"So, you're planning to run Santana and Brittany to the ground because you're irritated that I beat you and Mr. Karofsky?" Rachel questioned.

Sue nodded, triumphant.

"ACLU," Quinn coughed, punctuating each word with a loud cough. "Discrimination...lawsuit...no more championships...fired...loser..."

Sue frowned, disappointed at this realization and destruction of what had supposedly been a villain's speech to make Rachel very upset, stalked off, muttering obscenities.

"It's almost sad how much effort she puts into being mean," Rachel observed wryly. Quinn nodded in agreement.

"And how is that cold doing?" Rachel teased, when they were walking to Home Economics. Quinn looked offended.

"I made my point...just exaggeratedly."

"I hope you weren't really sick. Then I'd have to make you feel better."

"Rachel Berry...are you..._flirting_?" Quinn mocked.

"Of course, Quinn. What did you think I was going with that?"

"Pretending to be a nurse," Quinn replied dreamily, eyes glazing, until Rachel punched her shoulder and she blinked. "Ow! Jeez, don't get violent, Rach. It's a compliment!"

"A nurse?" Rachel wrinkled her nose, oblivious. "I'd rather be a teacher or something."

Quinn leered wickedly.

Rachel's mind caught up.

"_Quinn_! You're incorrigible!"

Quinn sulked.

* * *

When the couple approached the choir room at the end of the day, both looked at each other in puzzlement as shouts could be heard from within.

"_—_kidding, Mr. Schue! What the fuck?"

"He's not staying, Puck! Relax!"

"Puck's right! This is just stupid!"

"Have you even _talked_ to Rachel about this?"

"Why is this even allowed?"

Rachel pushed open the door and Quinn followed at her heels, as both adorned matching scowls at the sight in front of their eyes.

Mr. Schue, standing in the middle, while the rest of the club were standing near their seats, red-faced and furious. Mr. Schuester looked exasperated and frustrated.

Behind him, leaning against the piano and wearing a cast, was Finn, and his lips quirked into a taunting smirk upon Quinn and Rachel's entrance.

"What is he doing here?" Rachel asked, her voice dangerously quiet. Even Finn looked alarmed, as everyone shivered instinctively. "He's supposed to be suspended."

"He's not staying, Rachel," Mr. Schue promised. "I'm banning him from practice."

"Tell her, Finn_,_" Mike sneered. "Explain it."

"I'm excused from punishment," Finn elaborated, clearly pleased with himself. "I'm the quarterback. Those other guys aren't as important as I am. I get to stay in school."

"That's a load of shit," Rachel swore coldly, nails digging into her palms. "Figgins only did that because you're his mealticket."

"I don't know what that means," Finn shrugged, "but I can't lose here. You can."

"What's your point?" Rachel demanded, while Quinn loitered closely sending Finn dirty looks and miming strangulation as she pointed to his throat. Finn rolled his eyes.

"I can beat you in anything," Finn explained smugly. "And I'm getting Quinn back eventually."

The glee club shifted restlessly, all eyes on Finn radiating with disgust. Mr. Schue looked scandalized.

"Oh, right," Quinn announced scornfully. "Because I don't have willpower or a brain. Fuck off, Finn."

"I'll forgive you for that," Finn shrugged again. "It's no big deal. The point is, Quinn, you'll come crawling back when Rachel slips up."

"How would that happen?"

"Anything, really," Finn answered. "Karofsky's dad has his eye on you. You could be brought in for the smallest thing. Scary, isn't it?"

"No," Rachel replied frostily. "What is scary is me breaking your arm. Let's see, shall we?"

"Nope. Wanna know why? You try to hurt me, you're taken in to the station, no questions asked. You're going to lose this, Rachel, and I'm going to win. Accept it."

* * *

**Oh no. Finn strikes again. Two of my stories, he's nice, and this? Terrible! ****See you guys next time! Thanks for your time to read this! :)**

**P.S. _—_ Should I post my Tumblr URL?**


	10. Consequences

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**For anyone looking for a little "what goes around, comes around" for our dear Finn Hudson, you'll get a little, with a twist. Enjoy! :)**

* * *

Finn's dramatics were something Rachel wanted to laugh at, but in all truthfulness, the jock was completely right. One wrong implication from her and Finn would be tattling straight to Mr. Karofsky, who no doubt would find a loophole in the system and try to charge her. Finn's confident hubris that was his foil, however. Rachel was amused and surprised at the immediate conference, spearheaded by Santana, once Mr. Schue had vacated the room after glee club had ended on tense, uneasy note.

"I already called my dibs," Santana announced. "I'm going first with the pranks on Lurch. Bitch is going down."

"What are you going to do?" Puck questioned. "I've got plenty of ideas, too."

"You'll see."

The devilish gleam in her eyes did not go unnoticed, and while everyone else—including Rachel, to a grudgingly allowable degree—shuddered, Brittany simply beamed.

"She means business," Brittany declared proudly. "That's her thinking voice and her crafty eyes. Finn's gonna regret talking to you like that, Rachel."

Santana apparently did mean business. Over the course of two long weeks, Finn was subject to a wily, invisible prankster, who seemed to be not only all-knowing, but omnipresent. His clothes, upon returning from gym class or football practice, were found to be drenched in sour milk, stinking up the entire locker room. His homework was mysteriously spirited from his backpack, and later found to be torn to shreds in the hallway like confetti, and earned him a rare, cursory threat to his position as quarterback for grades even lower than his usual, a scant average. Several times, a fuming, stressed Finn equalled an exhausted Finn, and waking up from a necessary, study hall nap, found artfully depicted obscenities—including Santana's grotesque scribbles of genitalia, and Puck's comments about Finn's Spin The Bottle revealed story of no sexual experience whatsoever—on his forehead and cheeks, making him waste two classes cleaning off in the bathroom. His locker was rigged with slushie traps, his sneakers were tied together under his seat, eggs were hidden in his football helmet (only realizing so when he smashed the helmet on his head with boyish enthusiasm for a good practice), his chair was found to be coated in superglue, making his pants rip in the enraged effort to free himself, and recently, soda tipped into his open backpack, making it look like McKinley High's best football player had wet himself in public. Joke after joke, Finn could not find the culprit, and his attempts to blame Rachel were fruitless; the brunette always possessed a legitimate, reliable alibi, making it quite impossible for her to commit mischief without being spotted in the act or in hurried flight from it.

Needless to say, Finn's microscopic temper could only be held at bay for so long, before an eruption rivaling Mount St. Helens's would inevitably occur.

Except, when Finn confronted Rachel in the library, his anger was frigidly quiet and strained, not blustery, hot, and loud, like always.

"This has to stop," Finn told her. "I've had enough."

"What? Your trickster finally getting to you?"

"Look, I know you put them up to it," Finn hissed, towering over her. "Enough, okay? I said to stop it already, so do it, got it?"

"Newsflash, Finn," Rachel sighed calmly, finger sliding along a spine of a book before tipping the tome into her hands and opening to the index, "you aren't the boss of me."

"Yes, I am," Finn insisted, ripping the volume from her grasp and placing it high above her reach with petty contempt. "I can tell Mr. Karofsky about you."

"Tell him what?" Rachel asked vaguely, searching for another novel to examine. "That I've been innocent as an angel?"

"You haven't been innocent!"

"Incorrect, again," Rachel murmured, watching his eyes darken in fury, "I haven't done a thing, not once. You might want to ask Santana instead."

"I'll get her in trouble too," Finn snapped, triumphant. Rachel's lips curved in a disarming, knowing smile.

"Like Ms. Sylvester would let another Cheerio be suspended," the brunette drawled. "She just got the others back, remember? And Santana's one of her very best."

"I'll find a way to get you caught," Finn swore. "You'll see."

"And I'll be one step ahead of you," Rachel promised coldly. "You can't prove anything, Finn. I might be of a less, inconsequential social status in comparison to you, but I am smarter than you'll ever hope to be. You being a stupid jerk won't account for anything important in the long run. You'll still be faceless jock in Lima, and I'll be..."

She paused, automatically thinking in uncertainty to the invisible death warrant slapped on her forehead by the Mogadorians, but ignored her hesitation and pressed on.

"...not here," she concluded, placing the book still in her hands in its proper place on the shelf. "Have fun with your remaining glory days, Finn as King of McKinley."

With a graceful, condescending curtsy, Rachel sauntered from the library with a smile on her features, leaving one dumbfounded jock and his spinning, bewildered mind.

When did Rachel get the upper hand again? And what was with the curtsy thing?

* * *

"You just left him there?" Mike questioned, impressed. "I approve."

"Thank you. He looked certainly confused about it," Rachel nodded, pushing her lunch tray from herself. "I'm only concerned about his tall tales to Mr. Karofsky."

"There's no basis," Quinn interjected, absentmindedly doodling in a notebook, balancing her free hand under her chin. "He can't say anything about pranks he used to do."

"He did those, too?"

"Yup," Puck interjected. "I used to help. We tortured the freshmen last year. Some even cried."

"And," Santana added, her tone boasting, "I have a signature calling card. It's pretty sick, actually. Finnocence might not have noticed it, but it's been around."

"It's a cursive, red 'S'," Brittany burst out, excited (as Santana looked unable to upset with her). "It's really fancy. Puck and Matt helped her. That means it can't be you."

"Sounds edgy," Mike mused. "Like Jigsaw making a puzzle piece with the human flesh of his victims. I like it."

Mike turned scarlet when the others eyed him in perplexed disdain.

"What? That's the only signature thing I could think of! I don't like..._murder_! God."

"You missed the Joker," Rachel pointed out teasingly. "Obviously, the deck of playing cards at every crime scene?"

"What about _Holes_?" Santana offered. "Kissing Kate Barlow?" Upon receiving incredulous looks, she frowned. "What? I read. Is that so hard to believe?"

"Stanley Yelnats," Brittany interrupted suddenly, delighted. "Backwards and forwards."

Santana sent her a warm smile.

"I don't know what I find worse, though," Mike remarked conversationally. "Finn's 'tude or Mr. Schue's endless tirades about Sectionals."

"Sectionals," Rachel and Santana huffed at the same time.

"Seconded," Quinn grumbled. "It's a singing competition, not the World Series."

"Aren't we facing a school of juvie girls?" Puck wondered, a lecherous grin on his face. "They're probably as badass as I am."

"Jane Addams Academy," Mike nodded. "And that Havenbrook School for the Deaf."

Santana voiced the quip no one dared say aloud.

"And Mr. Schue thinks we're going to _lose_?"

"He's been realistic," Quinn shrugged. "You can't get cocky."

"Don't get too cocky, kids," Mike reiterated seriously. "Han Solo taught me that at a very young age. Wise words were never spoken before."

Rachel giggled, Quinn looked amused, Puck smirked, Brittany looked bewildered, and Santana sighed, as if Mike's nerdy tendencies were a personal insult.

"Is there _ever_ a day where you don't talk about anything to do with aliens?" The Latina burst out.

"No."

"I pity your future wife," Santana muttered.

"Santana, my future wife would be a Trekkie like you," Mike cajoled suggestively, waggling his eyebrows, "interested?"

"No, she's not," Brittany piped up, sending Mike a reproving glare.

While an argument exploded with Santana and Brittany vs. Mike with Puck as an enthusiastic, enabling bystander, Quinn leaned in Rachel's direction.

"Doing anything later?"

"Chores with my dad," Rachel answered, automatically conjuring another half-truth on instinct. "We're...cleaning out the...basement."

"Is it messy?" Quinn inquired, wrinkling her nose.

"Yeah, uh...it's really nasty, so it might take awhile," Rachel replied quickly. "But I could stop by your house later, if you wanted me to."

"Okay," Quinn smiled easily. "I'll see you after then," the blonde decided, stealing some of an oblivious Brittany's lunch. "I'm thinking we need a _Harry Potter_ marathon."

"Good idea," Rachel agreed with a little grin. "I'll be quick."

* * *

Rachel ran home after glee practice, where the majority of the time was spent theorizing a twelfth body to replace Finn for Sectionals. Mr. Schuester, staunchly on Rachel's side, wouldn't let Finn rejoin the club on the obvious point of his misogynistic leanings and repeated bullying incidents against the brunette. Puck voted for the draft option, which involved intimidating Jacob Ben Israel, the school geek, as the inconsequential, sway-in-the-background person for them to qualify. It didn't surprise anyone when Santana agreed, illustrating a one-two punch with her hands and the threatening grip on a shirt collar (Puck nodded seriously in total approval). Quinn suggested bribery— Lauren Zizes, the sole female wrestler at McKinley, adored Canterbury Eggs—and Mr. Schue almost looked like he was considering it before coming to his supposedly moral adult senses and vetoed it. Artie volunteered asking his jazz band friends, Matt muttered something about _possible_ football players, and Tina mentioned her art classmates.

Rachel closed the front door behind her, peering around for Leroy, and spotted him through the window in the backyard, arranging three cinderblocks in a pile.

Elphaba Brice was kept inside, asleep on the couch.

"Did my hazmat suit arrive?"

"Today," Leroy told her, handing Rachel a mass of rubbery orange and a pair of goggles. "You're going to adapt to fighting under any condition. This case being on fire."

Rachel pulled the suit on over her clothes, and zipped it up. Leroy tossed her a pair of boots and once the brunette was completely clad in her protective gear, Leroy turned back to her with a gallon of oil, throwing it over her so the sludge slid slowly down her body like mud. Her Cêpan reached into his pocket, withdrawing a box of matches, and although Rachel knew she was fireproof, the sound of a striking match, a glowing flame, and the sight of the small wooden stick flying haphazardly in her trajectory and setting her suit ablaze made her heart clench in pure terror. The heat was swift and heavy, and the kindling licked up her arms like a dry brush in the middle of a forest fire.

She couldn't feel what should have been an intense, burning agony in the enclosing suit. It was only something she would relate to the sun's sultriness in an August day.

"Now!" Leroy shouted, barely discernible over the roaring of the sizzling oil above a layer of rubber on her ears. "Throw those cinderblocks around!"

Rachel lumbered—really, her body felt like it weighed several hundred pounds more—and stooped to pick up a cinderblock, hurdling toward a tree with all of her might.

Fifty miles per hour, at least, and the tree's surface smashed with a cinderblock-sized hole, before splintering in two and falling to the ground with a deafening crash.

Rachel ambled to the next few, spinning like a discus thrower and tossing the blocks away from her, all becomings blurs of gray until impact with sapling after sapling.

The fire still burned endlessly on her hazmat suit, engulfing her in an inferno of weight and making her goggles begin to crack, the reenforced plastic starting to shiver.

"Leroy," Rachel ground out in a panic. "The goggles—"

A sliver of torrid, sweltering air filtered through a new crack in the plastic, ruining itself under pressure, making her eyes water and sear as if being pressed against hot irons.

"_Leroy_!"

Leroy snatched up a fire extinguisher from the ground and spun the dial before gripping the handle and the conduit and releasing a forceful stream of carbon dioxide.

The brunt of the crystals made Rachel weak at the knees as the fire was slowly smothered, and little particles of ice clung to the hazmat suit, like bits of a snowfall.

Rachel, tired after only a small exertion, let her body go sideways and land on the ground, breathing heavily. She reached up, taking off the now partially melted goggles.

"Shit," she breathed.

"That went well," Leroy commented, as her eyes lifted to meet approving his. "You didn't feel the burn, did you?"

"Not on my skin, no. Just the actual weight of it. Pretty heavy, it was."

"Nothing to be done about that, I suppose. Come on, I'm going to have you practice a reverse roundhouse kick and a few karate strikes."

"But I just—" Rachel squeaked, indignant. "I'm exhausted!"

"It's a training afternoon, Rachel," Leroy interrupted patiently. "What, do you have a date or something?"

"Actually, yes," Rachel grumbled, wobbling unsteadily to her feet. "Quinn and I were planning to watch _Harry Potter_."

"He wins in the end, you know."

"Leroy!" Rachel screeched, stomping her foot and regretting it as a flash of tangible fatigue shot up her leg. "What would you ruin it like that? What is _wrong _with you?"

Leroy shrugged. "I looked it up online."

"Wikipedia?"

"Yes."

"You _need_ to get out of the house," Rachel observed, irritable. "I'll have to introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Fabray as a new species...the Couch Potato Human."

"I go outside," Leroy retorted grumpily. "I watch the sun rise several times a week. I buy the newspaper."

"What about the stack of books on the table?" Rachel asked pointedly. "That'll keep you inside all day."

"I like to read and online shop, Rachel. Is that a crime?"

"Yes! First of all, you need to get out before you get cabin fever. Second, it is also a crime to restrict Quinn and I from a date."

Leroy raised an eyebrow in challenge.

Rachel crossed her arms, petulant.

"We're practicing for at least another three hours," Leroy insisted at last. "You managed to distract me, but it isn't going to work again, Rachel."

"Three hours?" Rachel repeated in disbelief. "No!"

"Do you want to make it four?" Leroy queried sternly.

"No."

"Good. I'll expect no criticism, either."

Rachel waited until Leroy was halfway across the yard before mumbling under her breath: "Asshole."

"I heard that. You just added fifteen more minutes."

Rachel growled.

* * *

Unfortunately, Rachel's annoyance couldn't be suppressed for long and she ended up working for four and a half hours until she was sweaty and sulky, completely worn out.

Not wanting to disappoint Quinn, Rachel nearly dragged herself to the blonde's house, where a dim flash of light could be seen from the sidewalk.

Quinn's bedroom was still lit up, so Rachel snuck through the backyard, and spotting a tree, climbed agilely and sneakily up to the window.

Rachel, poised like an acrobat, rapped her knuckles on the glass, hand trembling with dull exhaustion.

It took quite a few more tries until the window was pushed up and tired, hazel orbs glittering in the night finally appeared, brightening a little at Rachel's presence.

"Hey," Quinn smiled, helping the shorter girl clamber inside and pulled the window closed as quietly as possible before turning back to Rachel. "Whoa. You look beat."

"I...had to, um, scrub the floors," Rachel fibbed wearily, internally wincing at yet another lie to Quinn's gullible face. "It took...awhile. Sorry I...missed our movies."

"That's okay," Quinn said, drawing the brunette closer, and supporting her weight as she wound her arms around Rachel's waist. "Why don't you stay over?"

"It's a school night...isn't it?" Rachel questioned slowly, trying not to slur her words like an incoherent drunk. Quinn giggled, amused.

"Sure. But tomorrow you can just hide and I'll fake sick for my mom, and then we can play hooky _all_ day together," the blonde answered, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Sounds good..." Rachel yawned adorably. "Maybe...I should...sleep...now?"

Quinn muffled her snickers and led a sheeplike Rachel to her bed, guiding her girlfriend to lie down and stretch out comfortably. Rachel kicked her shoes off and Quinn joined her, settling so she was facing Rachel, with only a few inches separating them. Quinn pulled the covers up and made sure they were spread evenly before sinking back into the position on her stomach. Rachel's eyes shimmered in the minimal light. Quinn likened them to a glassy, speculative mirror. Her girlfriend's gaze seemed to study her, like an x-ray, curious but sleepily appeased. Rachel's free hand (one not under her pillow) crept up to entangle with one of Quinn's, making automatic fluctuations occur in her heart. A drowsy smile appeared on Rachel's face and compelled Quinn to return it before shuffling forward to press a kiss to Rachel's lips, before settling again, now with less than an inch between the two. Quinn felt her heart swell again when Rachel's eyes drifted shut, too tired to wait any longer. The blonde didn't remember experiencing such easy happiness before, in such a small gesture as a sleepover, but Rachel unintentionally propelled everything to surge with tangible serenity, making Quinn _fe_e_l _peaceful.

She didn't feel nervous about this. _This_ should be a scary moment, sharing a bed with Rachel, but the sensation of total equilibrium with the brunette kept her at ease.

Finn hadn't kept her calm for long—she always managed to feel the dregs of anger boil in her stomach in irritation with him, stirring darkly until she could yell at him again.

Puck wasn't able to keep her tranquil either. He was a good listener, but she didn't require _just_ a listener, but everything all in one. Puck only had one quality she wanted.

Rachel possessed all the quirks she desired in a suitor. Kindness, for one. Stubbornness, something that would normally turn her off, but Rachel managed to act determined when it was right, not when she wanted to be selfish, like Finn was. A sense of humor, too. Puck was funny but inappropriate almost ninety-nine percent of time, and Finn was achingly slow on the uptake when it didn't come to being openly manipulative. Best of all, Rachel could see—well, besides the glee club, of course, with recent events— past Finn's golden boy bullshit, and remembering the hayride blitz, Quinn knew Rachel wasn't really afraid of anything in Lima, especially a group of judgmental lemmings.

There was a catch, however. Nothing was ever perfect—that, itself, was impossible to gain and useless to try.

Rachel didn't share much about herself. Quinn wanted know about little things, like where Leroy and Rachel had been, besides the basic facts Rachel shyly volunteered.

To balance it out, Quinn supposed she could revert to old traits, if a situation presented itself and made her angry. She wondered if she'd ever snap at Rachel.

Quinn resolved to be silently patient. They were a new couple, after all, and she didn't expect the brunette to lay everything on the table to be understood all at once. The blonde internally questioned if there was something holding Rachel back, like an inability to open up or a hurtful memory keeping her secrets away. She'd just wait and see.

Listening to the gentle sounds of Rachel's breathing, Quinn let her eyes close and went to sleep, her fingers still interlocked in Rachel's careful grasp.

* * *

Rachel was very, very displeased in the morning to find herself being unceremoniously shoved into a closet, still blinking lethargy from her eyes.

She covered a yawn and listened to Quinn shuffle around, trying to generate a temperature and gulp down some water, gargling to make her throat scratchy.

She spied through the dividers, watching Quinn adorn a tight grimace and mess up her hair and jump into bed before Judy came in to wake her daughter up.

"Quinnie? It's time for school..."

"Mom?" Quinn croaked. "'M not feeling too good."

Rachel's mouth curled into a smirk. Quinn sounded pretty convincing. She heard Judy's heels wander closer to her daughter's bed, the clacking even and quick.

Her sensitive ears picked up on the whisper of pressure on Quinn's forehead, and assumed Judy was checking for a fever. Judy tutted quietly.

"You're a little warm, sweetie. I think you should stay home."

"But I need to take a test," Quinn protested weakly, and Rachel restrained laughter. That was the kicker. Offer a protest and the parents are sold on your dedication.

"Not today you aren't," Judy replied firmly. "I'll be right back—I'm going to bring some extra blankets and warm up some soup for you."

"Okay," Quinn fake-rasped, and Judy left, disappearing downstairs. Rachel opened the closet dividers a bit, grinning. Quinn winked, and Rachel pulled the doors closed again.

"Here," Judy announced, sometime later. Rachel peeked, seeing a pile of blankets on the end of Quinn's bed, and Judy placed a tray on Quinn's bedside table.

"Thanks, Mom."

"Now, I have to get to the office because I'm working for that promotion; your father's on that retreat until the weekend but I'll call and check on you during the day."

"Okay," Quinn murmured, and Judy kissed her forehead before vanishing from the room. Rachel heard the purr of an engine and later, fading, and then, silence.

Rachel opened the closet door and leveled a smile at the blonde, who beamed back, proud, sitting up on her bed.

"How's that for acting skills?" Quinn bragged. Rachel laughed.

"Oscar-worthy."

"Thanks," Quinn giggled. "Great! The house to ourselves! Let's watch some _Harry Potter_!"

Agreeably grabbing Quinn's waiting hand, Rachel smiled as they descended the stairs. "Enthusiastic?"

"Yes. _Harry Potter_ doubles as the best book series ever and the best film series ever."

"I think you just like looking at Daniel Radcliffe," the brunette teased. Quinn scoffed.

"What's _not_ to like about him?"

* * *

At Quinn's insistence, they had to watch the third, fourth, and fifth movies, because the first two were apparently slow-paced and not as exciting. Rachel didn't mind. The pair lounged on the couch, with Rachel's back lying against Quinn's front while Rachel traced nonsense patterns along Quinn's arm, draped over Rachel's waist. Halfway through the scene of Voldemort's return and the epic duel between the Dark Lord and Harry, Rachel dozed off, mind going blank and empty, until an old memory surfaced.

The screeching noise of ripped ozone and the terrified screams and yells of "Mogadorians" permeated her senses, anchoring her in the vision.

She stood still in the center of chaos, as bodies sprinted past her, some stooping to pick up children and others running to find their families as the fateful invasion began.

Her eyes saw her five-year-old self being snatched into her grandmother's arms, and a man stood beside her grandmother, eyes hard and mouth in a firm line.

She heard fragments of Loric, and her grandfather appeared, ordering something quickly and gesturing. Leroy, her grandmother, and herself followed, as the Garde arrived.

Adults in sleek suits ran to the scene as the black spaceship—the first of many—finally landed, spilling out a legion of Mogadorians, wielding spears and humming weaponry.

The Garde, a few with glowing hands like hers, one turning invisible, and the others, hands extended, yelled something together and charged.

She was a ghost here, and bodies and weapons sailed through her, and foreign curses and taunts mingled with Loric sneers and encouragements to their comrades.

Animals like the one who had played with her earlier, morphed into enormous lions and bear combinations, mauled Mogadorians before being slaughtered by spears.

Rachel watched, aghast, as more and more Garde fell, eyes going hollow and wounds sprouting with blood. One man, standing high, roared incentives to his fellow Lorics.

The brunette examined the man as he fought, tossing fire and earth with his hands and telekinesis forcing his enemies to their knees. Her brows furrowed in confusion as she eyed his features. Tan skin, darkened eyes...there was something familiar about him. Her gaze drifted from the man as he brawled, wondering where her little self went.

Angry exclamations of the Mogadorians and exhausted cheers from the Lorics dragged her eyes and attention skyward, as a gleaming, chrome missile—no, an impeccably assembled aircraft—zoomed into and then through the atmosphere, a trail of sapphire fire shadowed behind it. A sad smile lifted on Rachel's lips, as she just _knew_ that the silver ship carried her five-year-old self, Leroy, the other eight Cêpan, and the eight other Loric teenagers, three of which would be dead in less than ten years on Earth.

She turned away from the still-happening battle and disappearing shuttle, hearing someone calling her name, right in her ear. Or was it whispering?

"_Rachel_."

Rachel—that wasn't her Loric name, that was...an Earth language, English, right? The brunette's eyebrows rose to her hairline, confused, until she heard it again.

"Rachel...wake up. Come on, I know you're really cute when you're asleep but now we need to get something to eat...up and at 'em, Rach..."

She blinked, and her mind went blank before her gaze cleared, and Quinn's hazy face beside her finally sharpened into clarity. Rachel blinked again.

"Hey, Sleepy-Head," Quinn smiled brightly. "You were out for a little while there."

"Hey," Rachel murmured, as Quinn planted a lingering, sweet kiss on her cheek. "What are we eating?"

"I'll make some grilled cheese sandwiches. You can stay here, 'kay?"

Rachel watched Quinn vanish into the kitchen before reaching over to the house phone, dialing Leroy's number.

"Leroy?"

"Rachel," Leroy greeted, sounding annoyed. Great. "How are you?"

"I'm at Quinn's. I just wanted to let you know."

"I assumed so, seeing as to that's where you went and didn't come home last night."

"Sorry," Rachel mumbled. "I just wanted to spend time with her."

"I'm not yelling at you," Leroy chided. "Next time, call, and just say so when you want to skip school, all right?"

"You'd let me?"

Leroy paused. "Maybe. I'd consider it."

"Thanks...Dad," Rachel concluded pointedly, when Quinn arrived, laden with sandwiches with soda, and smiled in thanks. She heard Leroy sigh.

"You're welcome, Rachel. I hope you know, however, that you'll be practicing with the hazmat suit again soon and intensive judo training as well."

"Fine. Sounds great. See you later."

Rachel hung up and settled back on the couch, accepting a lunch tray from Quinn.

"I forgot about Leroy," Quinn muttered guiltily. "Does he know you skipped school?"

"Yeah—he said it's fine, once and awhile," Rachel answered, nibbling on her sandwich. "I liked participating in truant activities with you, anyway."

Quinn grinned.

"We should be AWOL at school on the day of Sectionals," the blonde snickered. "Just to rattle Mr. Schue up. We can be fashionably late."

"I'm sure he'd have a heart attack," Rachel countered, amused. "Would you want that one your conscious?"

"No..."

"You hesitated."

"He's just so freakin' uptight," Quinn complained. "I don't anything but a heart attack would make him loosen up."

"Right," Rachel laughed. "Let's watch a movie and distract you from these homicidal thoughts, Quinn."

"They're not homicidal," Quinn grumbled crossly. "Forget it."

"Someone's sulky," Rachel teased, leaning over to place a kiss on Quinn's nose, making the blonde drop her pout and smile automatically instead.

"You're cute."

"You need a new endearment for me. That sounds repetitive."

"How's...shortcake?"

Rachel glowered.

* * *

"I don't want to send you out," Quinn whined. "We need to play hooky every day."

"Although that sounds like a marvelous idea and very tempting, I'll have to just see you tomorrow," Rachel smiled brightly, rising on her toes to kiss her. Quinn kissed her back eagerly, sliding a hand into Rachel's hair to keep her close. Rachel felt the usual electrifying spark zip speedily up her spine, unwittingly emitting a little sigh at the feel and making Quinn tighten her grip. The kiss possessed more fire and and more adrenaline and more danger than the actual physical inferno that Rachel trained with yesterday. The blonde was, metaphorically, the only fire that could really burn Rachel, with subdued passion and heat that could create more damage than a corporeal blaze.

Quinn's kisses were usually gentle, but tonight, she seemed to want more (not that Rachel cared) and drew Rachel closer, and the brunette's head began to spin dizzily. When Quinn _bit_ her lip slightly, playfully, Rachel gasped aloud and the blonde pulled away, looking anxious and drawing her bottom lip to sit between her teeth, uncertain.

"I—"

"It's okay," Rachel blushed. "I've just never, I mean, you kissed me before anyone else and I didn't expect that—which was _totally_ okay—and it just...surprised me—"

"Rachel," Quinn interrupted, smiling. "I sometimes forget you haven't kissed anyone besides me before or anything else beyond that. If you need to go slow, I will."

Rachel nodded. "Not too slow. I like our pace and spontaneity, though."

Quinn agreed.

Rachel's eyes narrowed after a beat of companionable silence. "I will be getting you back."

Quinn smirked. "Right."

"I will."

"Sure."

"Don't patronize me."

"I'm not," Quinn sang, dancing teasingly out of Rachel's reach. Rachel cheated and used some of her enhanced speed, catching up to Quinn and pinning her to the front door, a triumphant smirk on her lips as Quinn looked astonished and dumbstruck. Rachel pressed closer, keeping the blonde still with her own body, heartbeat to heartbeat.

"Got you," Rachel breathed pleasantly, making Quinn shudder.

"Got me," she conceded in a real croak, unlike the imitation this morning. "Now what are you going to do?"

"Leave."

Rachel planted a rough kiss on Quinn's mouth and flounced down the front stairs, smile a mile wide. She was halfway down the street when Quinn called out to her.

"Not fair!" Quinn yelled, still leaning on the door for support with weak knees. "Cheater!"

Rachel simply grinned and offered a shrug and wave goodbye, leaving her girlfriend brooding and amusedly frustrated, still on her own front stairs.

* * *

After an afternoon of obligatory—_hard as a fucking bitch_, amended Rachel's disgruntled, usually silenced profanity filter—training and another night of necessary sleep, Rachel arrived at school, solo this time, and as soon as she entered the building, was unwillingly tugged sideways and smacked into a body.

"Oof," Rachel huffed, and the body echoed, and Rachel looked up to find a cheerful Brittany, smiling at her.

"Sorry," Brittany proclaimed contritely. "San told me to make you stay here until she gets to us."

"Why?"

"She says it's a surprise."

"Oh."

Brittany decided to hold Rachel's textbooks as a suitable apology, and within minutes, Santana appeared, stopping to kiss Brittany and then address Rachel.

"Santana, why am I—?"

"I set up another prank on the Jolly Green Giant..."

"Isn't that for veggies?" Brittany mumbled to herself. Rachel continued to listen to Santana's explanation.

"...and it's all going to just _fall_ out. Nasty, right?"

"Sure," Rachel allowed. "When is it going to happen?"

"Now," Santana answered excitedly, pointing down the hallway. Rachel watched Finn materialize from around a corner, smacking high-fives with his departing teammates, grinning lopsidedly, and wander to his locker, whistling and earning a few glances from Cheerios passing by him. Rachel rolled her eyes in distaste as the girls and Finn flirted for awhile before the quarterback drawled a goodbye—and this asshole still wanted Quinn? Talk about double standards—and turned his attention back to his locker. Anticipation mounted in Rachel's brain as Finn's twirled the combination—Rachel expected a dramatic jump in invisible background music, rising to a crescendo—and finally, the locker door swung open, dousing the jock in a mountain of Sloppy Joe's, coating his belongings, sneakers, jeans, and half of his T-shirt in the greasy, sodden mess.

The corridor exploded with laughter and jeers as Finn's cheeks turned an ugly shade of burgundy, and Rachel felt a stirring of regret in her heart.

Finn was a dick, but this was just cruel. Finn whipped out his phone, dialing a number with shaking, enraged hands, and held it to his ear, speaking quickly.

Rachel met his stormy, angered gaze, holding it, and watched his lips move, only realizing then that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

She didn't have an alibi.

She was at the scene of the crime.

She was next to a cackling Santana, who was an obvious perpetrator, and worse, she was on the watch list, according to both Finn and Mr. Karofsky.

Finn hung up, stomping to the bathroom and shoving giggling bystanders out of his path, and Rachel remained still, fear climbing into a dangerous, terrifying summit.

_Now what?_

* * *

Rachel didn't relax, several minutes later, when the hallway cleared and she was alone (Santana had tugged a confused Brittany away, leaving Rachel's books in her arms). How could she let it go this far? The pranks were justified, yes, but still...being pseudo-caught conspiring with the prankster was a hook, line, and sinker for the police, who would obviously choose to believe Finn. Finn would complain of harassment, Finn would whine about bullying, and in the end, Finn would win, just like he promised her.

Rachel's phone buzzed with two text messages.

_Hey, where are you?_ — Quinn

The brunette choose to ignore the first (admittedly, regretful, she didn't want to _ignore_ her girlfriend, but she didn't want to get arrested), and clicked to the next one.

Leroy's number displayed itself at the top, and with bated breath, Rachel scrolled to the composed message, biting her lip in trepidation.

Her heart plummeted.

_Got a call from the sheriff. Something you did at school just landed us a police detail on the house. They'll be watching us around the clock. Come home, now._

* * *

**Finn strikes again! He just doesn't know what to stop, huh? **

**(Ignore that lame joke.)**

**Hope I entertained you readers for awhile. Have a nice day/night!**


	11. Understanding

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**I apologize about the wait and thought I would post this as a nice pick-me-up to the horror that is next week's episode and this week's awfulness.**

**It is a bit of a filler before the action picks up again, but I expanded a bit on Faberry's cloud nine with minimal...um, attempted angst. So, enjoy!**

* * *

Rachel stared, aghast, at her phone in complete horror, unable to tear her eyes away from the digitized message as a curse escaped her lips. Her fingers curled around the device, almost crushing it to bits while her grip tightened on her textbooks. _This_ was the game Finn was playing? Her only—metaphorical—weakness in human regards?

A police detail. Finn managed to wrangle a police detail from Mr. Karofsky and his obedient minions, meaning it would be a twenty-four hour watch on her house with eyes and ears fixed on _anything_ weird that could happen in the vicinity. What if they saw fire and stormed inside, only to find Rachel unharmed and immersed in an inferno for training? What if the officer happened upon a weapon or two from Leroy's supply, and slapped on a warrant because Leroy lacked a real permit to carry such an item?

Did anyone in Lima have actual morals? Where was the code of ethics? The dependable, secure image of law being unbiased and just? How could they just get away with that? It wasn't a fair deal and it wasn't like Rachel was the prime suspect for the generally low-key crimes in the town. The worst offense and penalty she'd heard of since her arrival was a few drunk senior boys, a totaled car (thankfully all uninjured), and several months of community service at a nursing home. But a police detail? That should be for murderers or drug dealers. _This_ was blatant inclination for Finn's whims because he shared a spot on the football team and friends with the son of the sheriff.

Her phone buzzed, flashing Leroy's number and jerking her from her reverie.

"Why aren't you home yet?" He demanded when she answered the call. She winced at his tone, thankful the hallway was empty at the moment.

"Leroy, listen—"

"Rachel, don't argue with me. Not right now. We can't stay somewhere and be incognito if we're being watched around the clock. We have to leave. Again."

"Leaving would be more suspicious," Rachel pointed out, ducking into a bathroom and locking the door. She checked under the stalls, finding no one. "You're panicking."

"Of course I am, Rachel. What do you expect?" Leroy snapped. "What happened there? What brought this on?"

"Well...Santana, one of the students in glee with me, started a series of pranks on Finn on my behalf. He looked over and saw me, and with that excuse, made the call."

"Why did she start the pranks?"

"Because Finn wasn't suspended like the others. He got to remain in school due to his position as quarterback," Rachel explained irritably. "Then he talked about Quinn."

Leroy groaned.

"_Yes,_ I know. He talks about her like she's some sort of possession, and it bothers me when someone talks crudely about _my_ girlfriend."

"So...this whole melodrama with the police is the product of your humanlike tendencies and Finn's lack of values because of his annoyance at your relationship with Quinn?"

"Exactly," Rachel answered, placing her books on the sink counter.

"You need to train harder, Rachel. You're slipping! You're _forgetting_ to be _forgettable_ and you're forgetting you _aren't_ human, no matter how much you wish it to be so."

Leroy seemed to gather more steam, and went on.

"This is exactly like the time when you were thirteen. The scarring from Three's death? The panic and confusion and suspicion? You woke up the whole neighborhood!"

* * *

_She awoke with a scream, still unused to the burn, even if it was her third one in only eight years on Earth. The pressure and scratching felt like a blade, covered flames, with razor sharp edges—even if that wasn't remotely possible, it sure did feel like it—tearing into her skin. Three's Loric name, a series of overlapping circles (similar to her own, but unique), gleamed in a sapphire, grisly image, embedding itself onto her bloodying ankle as she muffled her cries of agony with her fist. Leroy had woken up instantly, alert, and hastily explained to the sleepy-eyed, befuddledly concerned neighbors that poor, dear Rachel, simply had a terrifying nightmare. Horror movie, eating late—Leroy threw every excuse in the book at them, and they wandered away with drowsy nods and yawns. Leroy and Rachel moved a week later, citing a family crisis. _

* * *

Rachel leaned against the sinks, unable to reply. He was right, of course, as always. She couldn't let herself believe in a helpless hope. She could only pretend to be it.

She hadn't counted on her latest false identity to mean so much to her to actually immerse her in a selfish, unattainable desire to be human, like Quinn. For Quinn.

She wanted a life, and got exactly what she wanted, but only just. A life, yes. Friends, definitely. But a human essence? A human body? No. That would never happen.

She only then embraced the words _bittersweet_ and _pipe dream._ They never applied to her until now, and as every unhappy recipient of such a feeling felt, it sucked. Badly.

The brunette heard Leroy sigh heavily, air whistling through the speaker in a crackling hiss until he spoke again.

"My patience is limited and diminishing quickly, Rachel. It's not like you're trying particularly hard at fitting in nor controlling your temper, and there's only so much suspicion we can take before they stop the questions and bring warrants to investigate us. What happens when they figure out—however unlikely, with our superior technology—that our documents are forged? That you and I aren't real, American citizens? What happens when they bug our house, the only place we can talk freely? What happens when they see your abilities and your endurance, reaching past human restrictions? Lima, although good for us, has a time limit. You're making it shorter."

Rachel didn't answer, scuffing her shoe against the floor, guiltily and regretfully.

"The reason I'm letting this slide (and believe me, your training won't end, even with this detail) is because I'm still studying Mike's father's disappearance and his research."

"Research?"

"I'm starting to suspect he was taken by Mogadorians."

"No," Rachel breathed, blood draining from her face. Mike's father taken because of the Mogadorians? That was personal, even if it hadn't happened because of her.

"It's not concrete, but with his delving into extraterrestrials and his job in Columbus in the same place as the _They Walk Among Us_ website makes me question it."

"I should tell M—"

"That's just it," Leroy insisted, frustrated. "You can't. I said to make friends. I didn't mean to tell them about your secret. Mogadorian abduction or not, you can't tell Mike."

"What am I supposed to do, then?" Rachel demanded. "Sit here and do nothing? Act natural and not say anything to anyone?"

"Yes. Keep your head down, and eventually they'll revoke the police detail when they've got nothing on us. And don't tell Mike about us or my theory, Rachel. I mean it."

Leroy hung up and Rachel shoved her phone into her pocket, palms glowing unconsciously in her resentful, directionless anger.

She whirled around and viciously kicking a section of the wall in her rage, making a depressed indent in the tiles, surrounded by spiderweb cracks in every direction.

Rachel bit her lip, running a hand through her hair as she sighed, and held her palms out, concentrating until the bluish, cobalt radiance faded from her skin.

Her phone vibrated from the floor, where it had fallen. Retrieving her books, she flipped open her phone to peer at the text and frowned, remembering Quinn's from earlier.

_Where are you? — _Mike

_Sorry, late to school. I'll be there in a second. _—Rachel

With another mournful sigh, Rachel collected her books and unlocked the bathroom door, closing it behind her, and grimaced as the bell rang. She missed the whole class.

Students filtered out from doorways, grumbling about homework and aggravating teachers as Rachel turned to find either Mike or Quinn, she nearly fainted.

David Karofsky's features were still purple and hideous, making it look like his face was brutally bashed in from the jaw up. His eyes were tight, just staring at her.

The other students in the hallway fell silent, all knowing of the previous exchange between the two, and the air grew thick with tension and an undercurrent of fear.

It was almost as if the leading predator had been usurped by a newer, stronger one. Rachel didn't the feeling, not one bit.

Ten beats passed as Rachel held her breath, and finally, Karofsky shuffled sideways, submissively, allowing a great berth of room for Rachel to pass by him. His shoulders lowered an inch, and his head descended carefully, his chin close to his chest, as if waiting for her to leave. Rachel's stomach twisted with guilt. She _knew_ he was an asshole, definitely homophobic, and a cruel bully, but the damage inflicted on his body looked more hurtful emotionally than physically. Rachel couldn't find the urge to move from her place, and simply gazed at him with sorrowful eyes, as the hallway did to the pair. Lorics were supposed to be a gentile race, not aggravated and violent.

She didn't know what was worse—disappointing her heritage, disappointing herself, or literally smashing a human's demeanor from aggressive to pitifully meek and sad.

How could she rise to her potential with issues like this dragging her down to human levels?

She wanted to play the blame game, but in all truthfulness, the product of her anger—although justified by vigilante terms, protectiveness of Quinn, and indignation at Finn's actions—was this cruelty to Karofsky. His strength could never be as damaging as hers, and she only used a little. If she'd hit him any harder during the Halloween dance or the group involved in the hayride blitz, she would've been given jail time. She could've killed all of them, if she really tried, and the thought alone was terrifying.

The police detail wasn't for the direct punch to Karofsky, but Finn's request to an already furious Mr. Karofsky did the trick, and it was all of her fault, completely.

It was necessary to rid herself of the police detail, but internally, she knew it was well-deserved. Not stopping the pranks, but lashing back at an established order.

All in all, she should've done what she always did—remain obscure and isolated, just another lemming in the horde with nothing to say or do, only absent compliance.

Leroy's logic was coming full-circle, and it was a bitch to admit it. What made it so difficult this time? Why was Lima so different?

_Quinn. Mike. The glee club. Quinn, again. Always._

Her head felt heavier than usual. She couldn't tell if it was remorse, or self-hatred. Hating her own idiosyncrasies, or hating the way her latest life turned out.

Couldn't she just rewind and try again?

Her heart caught up with her brain. Rewinding would mean losing Quinn..._her _Quinn. The one who _liked_ her, not simply the warm stranger who politely assisted her.

Rachel didn't want to rewind anything after that revelation. Quinn was the crux of the problem—thoughts of a do-ver mean she loses her, and keeping her creates guilt.

She'll take the guilt each time.

She blinked as hands pushed against her shoulder blades, guiding her forward. Walking obediently away from Karofsky, the spell was broken, and noise returned instantly.

Rachel peered backwards, surprised to see Santana Lopez escorting her from the scene, and further back, a motionless Karofsky amidst a sea of now loud movement.

Brittany helpfully disappeared, sensing now was not the time to hang on Santana's arm and ambled off at the sight of Kurt at his locker.

Beside the History threshold, Quinn and Mike looked at her curiously, and back to a still frozen Karofsky, not understanding the look of despair on her face, nor the regret.

The brunette turned away, rearranging her expression, while still being herded by the Latina, as the pair wandered into an empty classroom. Santana shut the door.

"Why are we here?"

She sounded muddled to her own ears, like she was drowning or waking up groggily. She silently cursed Finn's name for giving her a headache and a contrite mindset.

"You needed a way out," Santana told her simply. "You looked like you wanted to apologize. He should be apologizing to you, Berry. Not the other way around."

Ah, the eye-for-an-eye reasoning. A classic. He hurt her, she hurt him, and all was even now. Rachel shook her head. She needed a break from herself right now.

Rachel didn't answer, instead, simply tightened her grip on her books and lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug.

Santana eyed her, before she looked suddenly speculative. Curious. Rachel avoided her eyes as the cheerleader pivoted, head tilting to the side as she continued to stare.

"There's always something with you," Santana observed, watching her closely. "Finn, Karofsky, the hayride beatdown...looks can be deceiving, huh?"

"I suppose," Rachel murmured.

"You must be either crazy strong or something different," Santana remarked, but it didn't sound humorous, like she intended. It was meddlesome. Nosy. Interrogative.

"Or something," Rachel replied coolly.

Rachel could feel the noose of mistrust tightening each day. Her facade of aloof, new student with a bit of a temper would crumble to pieces if just one person found out about her. Lima was making her careless. Quinn wasn't the problem, _she_ was. Her reactions to Quinn and the others could've been different if she thought them through.

Being headstrong and reckless were two of her faults, and only at that moment did she realize it. She must've missed the memo about being a careful, Loric refugee.

"Whatever," Santana countered at last, when Rachel and her had been in a long, unofficial staring contest. "It's probably your wardrobe. The argyle's making you insane."

"Makes sense. I'll come to you, Santana, with any psychological issues I have in the future."

"Good. You'll have plenty, Berry. We'll be great pals."

* * *

Mike was waiting for her patiently in gym class, and the coach roared something about his terrible track team and scouting for runners, yelling for them to run the mile.

Rachel set a slow pace, playing the unathletic card, while Mike puffed along beside her, surprisingly lethargic for a dancer. His glasses slid a little down his nose.

"Why," he wheezed, "why were you late today? Thought I...saw you before."

"First of all, why are you bad at running?"

"Different exercise," was Mike's defensive answer. "Regimen isn't a familiar routine to me. Difficult to...pick up. Get used to, I mean. So, lateness? Explain."

"Did you hear about Finn?" She asked instead, slowing down a bit, lazily.

"Yeah. Nice. Who did it?"

"Santana," Rachel replied, not feeling a burn nor tiredness, while Mike was already red-faced. They finished the first lap, lagging behind the group on their second one.

"Chang!" The coach roared apoplectically, nearly turning purple with rage. Rachel's eyes widened. "Berry! PICK UP THE PACE! NOW, OR TEN SUICIDES!"

"Jesus," Mike hissed, looking determinedly away from the yelling teacher. "Someone needs to switch to decaf."

"Anyway," Rachel continued, as if there wasn't an interruption, panting for good measure and wiping her hand theatrically against her non-sweaty forehead, "Santana set up the prank on Finn—I'm sure it was the hundredth one—and he looked over and saw me standing there. You know how we've orchestrated everything so I always have an alibi. This time, though, I was metaphorically 'caught red-handed' and then, Finn decided to earn a little retribution and called Mr. Karofsky, right there in the hallway."

"And?" Mike queried worriedly.

"There's an official police detail on my house, starting today."

"Are you serious?" Mike demanded, stopping short on the track and turning fully to her. "What the fuck?"

"I know," Rachel agreed, hand lowering to rest on her hip. "It's completely unfair."

"Unfair? Rachel, it's unconstitutional," Mike insisted. "They can't do that. They need probable cause. School pranks don't count as evidence for investigation."

"But—"

"But nothing! Rachel, the issue with the hayride is over and done. This is just Mr. Karofsky being an asshole and abusing his power. Come on, we need to talk to Quinn."

"Quinn?" Rachel repeated, confused. "Why Quinn?"

"Her dad's friends with the mayor. Mr. Karofsky doesn't argue with the mayor. If Russell Fabray doesn't like something, and says so, the mayor will fix it immediately."

"Why?"

"Good friends in college, old money, same church, etcetera, etcetera. They owe each other favors, or something like that. I don't know. The point is, he can fix it."

Mike looked so earnest that Rachel couldn't help but nod, both in favor of removing the detail and the guilt in knowing a suspected cause for Mike's father's disappearance.

"Okay, let's—"

"CHANG! BERRY! Stop standing around like a couple 'a morons! Everyone else's finished already! Hurry up!"

Mike smiled lightly at Rachel and continuing running, and as Rachel worked to almost no effort to keep up with him, she let a smile of her own grace her lips.

He really was the best friend she'd ever have.

* * *

They pitched the issue to Quinn over lunch, and Santana, Brittany, Mike, and Rachel all sat back in slight disgust at the blonde spitting out her soda and coughing heavily.

"_What_?"

"They set up a watch on my house," Rachel reiterated slowly. "Mr. Karofsky was angry, and now Finn gave him a stupid excuse to have a detail to keep an eye on me."

"What a little bitch," Santana remarked, and sidled a remorseful glance at the brunette over Brittany. "Sorry, by the way. I didn't mean to let the blame fall on you, Berry."

"Thank you."

Quinn pushed her tray from herself, looking—to Rachel, at least—an adorable mix of fury, exasperation, befuddlement, and frustration. She sighed.

"I'll talk to my dad after classes are over," the blonde said at last, looking determined. "They can't just do this to you, Rach. He'll fix it."

"I know."

Mike tapped Brittany's hand, who grabbed Santana's, and the trio helpfully vanished, leaving the couple alone. Quinn smiled, scooting to a chair beside Rachel's.

Rachel pointedly moved closer, and grinned in victory when Quinn blushed first. Quinn had joked it as a game of theirs, but it was currently at a tie.

"I win," she breathed, voice low. Quinn's cheeks darkened.

"You are a _Nazi. _The Naziest Nazi of all the canoodlers in the world."

"That would upset Noah," Rachel teased. "He calls me his honorary Jew. You don't want to antagonize that logic, do you?"

Quinn rolled her eyes. "Pigs. Both of you are pigs."

"But don't you _love_ bacon?" Rachel leered, imitating Puck to a tee, and Quinn looked flabbergasted, flustered, and furious all at once before settling on grudgingly charmed.

"You're suave today. I hope you can win my father over again."

"Again?" Rachel squeaked, poise evaporating on the spot. "I thought I already did that with the dinner and the talking and the...the acceptance?"

Quinn laughed. "He hasn't given you the hurt-my-daughter-I-hurt-you speech so far. You're not in the clear yet, babe."

Rachel immediately flushed at the endearment and Quinn adorned a triumphant smirk, planting a kiss on Rachel's lips. "And I'm in the lead again, aren't I?"

"Yes. Also, you and I are also probably the easiest people in McKinley to embarrass."

"That," Quinn acquiesced with a nod and a playful tug of Rachel's hand to walk to class, "is definitely the truest thing I've heard in awhile."

* * *

"I have the address," Leroy remarked, spinning the steering wheel to cut through a side street. "Tracked it."

"What address?" Rachel asked distractedly, wringing her hands in her lap, before stopping to adjust her skirt's length for the umpteenth time. This was not good. A skirt too short would send the wrong impression to an already delicate one in the eyes of Russell Fabray. Out of complete boredom on Thanksgiving Day—several days after the detail debacle, which remained until she could speak with Mr. Fabray herself, at her own insistence and Quinn's indignant exasperation—Rachel had researched what church Quinn's family belonged to and promptly dissolved into pure panic as she read further and further, thus destroying her usual composure and making her anxious and afraid.

Russell had liked her, she knew that, but the classic, bullying speech to a suitor to paralyze them with fear? Totally different than her previous interaction with him.

Leroy's reaction was one of amusement, and he kept dropping hints about her inevitable doom around Mr. Fabray for doing something remotely...bold with or to Quinn.

Rachel was still blushing from when Leroy had donned a mockingly serious expression and asked in a kind tone if she and Quinn were planning to be _together_ soon.

"The website's. I'm going in about a week," Leroy explained. "I want to investigate when this holiday weekend is over."

"Oh."

Leroy grinned at her short replies, flicking the turn signal. "So..."

"Leroy, please. I'm embarrassed and frightened enough as it is. Not again."

"It's just a question," Leroy countered innocently. "Nothing _really_ significant, I promise. I'm just curious."

Rachel sucked a breath and knowing she would regret it, reluctantly nodded her assent.

"Who's going to carry the first baby?"

"Leroy!" Rachel yelled, smacking the dashboard so hard she made a palm-sized indent, thankfully not hitting the air bag but making the car swerve. "Shut up already!"

"Relax!" Leroy cackled. "I just wanted to know if the baby will be like Einstein, that's all."

"I despise you with all of my heart and I'm orchestrating a horrible session for you involving humanity's 'medieval' torture devices, à la the Inquisition in Spain."

"Right."

"It's true. I'm planning to make Elphaba ruin _all_ of your laptops."

"You wouldn't do that," Leroy replied easily, looking serene. "Otherwise, we wouldn't be able to remain in hiding and we'd have to leave Lima."

Rachel looked aghast. "Why do you always get to win the arguments?"

"Older, wiser...more things," Leroy shrugged dismissively, close to laughter. "Luckily, _you_ are the one to delve into one of the oldest clichés ever—intimidating the courter."

"I know that," Rachel grumbled. "Stop being unhelpful and drive, man, drive! I have to get this over with."

Leroy chuckled to himself and sped up, and within a few minutes, the Lorics reached the Fabray house, and parked in the driveway. Leroy led the way, holding a tray of cookies that Rachel baked, still looking like he would burst into giggles at any second. Rachel stood, disgruntled, behind him as the Cêpan as he rang the doorbell, whistling.

"Hey," Quinn's voice greeted, and Leroy smiled a little wider, sidestepping the blonde as Rachel watched his shoulders shake with suppressed amusement.

Rachel was still glaring after her guardian and didn't notice the ninja kiss Quinn pressed to her cheek until she found her gaze looking at curious hazel eyes.

"What's wrong?" The ex-cheerleader asked, brushing a stray tress of Rachel's hair behind her ear. "You look upset."

"My dad was...nevermind," Rachel answered, automatically peering appreciatively at Quinn's outfit. "You look very nice."

Quinn wasn't deterred, and pulled the door closed behind her, looking despondent.

"Rachel," she sighed, making the brunette's eyebrows furrow, "I understand there are things you don't tell me. I'm not stupid, okay?"

"Of course you're not—"

"Let me finish?" Quinn inquired, and Rachel nodded, biting her lip. "You aren't a talker, I get that. I do, so it's balanced, I guess. But sometimes, I feel like you're pulling away from me when there's something the matter. You don't open up and I really, really want to know how you tick. But I can't do that when you don't tell me anything."

"Quinn, I—"

"Wait. I'm not saying you have to tell me anything, but I'd like to know that you at least are considering it a little. We aren't just dating, we have to support each other, too. I'm supporting you on the Karofsky situation, and you've...well, kept Finn off me for the moment. A relationship isn't just dates, Rachel. I know that now and I don't want us to try out that way. Please...I just want to know little things about you," the blonde concluded pleadingly. "I want you completely but you aren't giving me that."

Rachel couldn't find her voice for a few seconds, simply holding Quinn's eyes and feeling more awful than an hour before. Quinn was right: she _did _deflect and rarely mentioned her life before Lima, as if it didn't exist. Legally, it didn't, but she couldn't just leave Quinn in the dark forever. It wasn't a one way street. More than she'd wanted anything in her existence, she wanted to let tell the blonde everything. She'd start with her hands, flashing the sapphire brilliance from her palms and explaining...she internally chastised herself. This was Leroy's point—she couldn't tell Quinn. She just couldn't. Her heart ached with indecision, and found herself speaking.

"I will. I will...tell you things," she fumbled desperately. "I just...I can start small, Quinn, but I...this sounds strange, but I can't tell you anything without Leroy's say so."

"Why?"

"My secrets are his secrets, too," Rachel elaborated. "Our family is just...different. Widespread, distant, secretive—"

"Oh my God," Quinn squeaked in dismay. "You aren't Mormons, are you?"

"No!" Rachel exclaimed. "What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know," Quinn mumbled, contrite. "Popped into my head."

Rachel shuffled her feet. "I understand your point, though. I'll try. You know that, don't you? I want to tell you, Quinn, and I _will_. Just not now. Not yet."

"Okay," Quinn agreed softly, hands ghosting over Rachel's forearms. "I believe you."

Rachel hesitated, deliberating, and offered tentatively: "I lived in Canada, once before, you know?"

"You did?"

"Yukon," Rachel answered, which was half-true. "For a very short time, though."

Quinn brightened noticeably. "Thank you for telling me."

"I'll be better," Rachel promised, and Quinn's smile was wobbly but mostly happy.

"I know you will, Rach. You just needed a little push. Now, we should go inside—everyone's probably wondering where we are."

* * *

The couple found Judy Fabray in a corner, enraptured in conversation with Leroy, who was—in Rachel's knowingly amused opinion—pulling information from nowhere about their life, which supposedly, according to Leroy's monologue, included a trip to two ghost towns, New Orleans, Oregon, and the Florida Keys. Quinn looked equally fascinated and promptly let go of Rachel's hand to listen, probably eager to know innocent information that Rachel's wasn't telling her. Rachel sighed, feeling emotionally drained.

Her mental exhaustion wasn't remedied when Russell Fabray wandered to her side, looking pointedly at the back porch. Rachel followed obediently, nervously.

"Rachel."

"Mr. Fabray."

"I'll admit this first," the blonde man began, "you make my daughter happier than I've ever seen, even more than with Finn and the Puckerman boy."

Rachel kept politely quiet, and Russell paused for a moment.

"She's the girl I missed, the one who wasn't unhappy and troubled and pressured all the time—she's mellowed out, and I think you're a primary cause of that. You're making her smile and she's definitely in the best relationship she's ever had, which brings me to my next point," Quinn's father continued. "What are your intentions with Quinn? I understand you are her first..._girlfriend_, and to be brutally honest, I hadn't expected much of you, but when she speaks of you, even when you just arrived in Lima, she'd get this look on her face...she cares for you a lot, and I hope you feel the same about her and aren't using her as an experiment of some malicious kind."

"I wouldn't ever do that to Quinn, sir," Rachel told him firmly, making sure he could see the truthfulness in her gaze. "She's worth more than that."

"She is."

"I know you're naturally inclined to be suspicious and concerned about the divergence from your beliefs, but the only thing I want for Quinn is to love her."

The words tumbling from Rachel's mouth were almost of their own accord, and she felt slightly proud of her own subconscious organizing her thoughts for her conscious.

Russell looked pleased with that answer, and he leaned against the wooden rail, crossing his arms. "You've got a good head on your shoulders. I like that."

"Thank you."

"Better than Finn," Russell observed and added, almost irritably, "he didn't even know where babies came from."

Rachel laughed quietly.

"Anyway," the man went on briskly, "when you said a divergence from my beliefs, you were right. Christianity doesn't condone your relationship, but I do. I don't really understand it, but I won't allow the church to stop my daughter from being happy with a person who is her gender. I'm not exactly comfortable, but I'm getting there."

Rachel smiled hesitantly. Russell allowed a little one of his own, before looking gruff again.

"Don't hurt her—she's lost a lot already, and although I've apologized, you can't just forget something like what I did. If you hurt her, too, I don't know how she'd react."

Seeing Rachel's unintentional, microscopic expression of defeated sadness at an unknown problem to him, he patted her shoulder.

"And don't worry, I'll get that police detail removed. I'll leave you to yourself, but come back in soon for dinner. You don't want Judy on your case, too, do you?"

Rachel shook her head and Quinn's father returned inside, closing the sliding glass door to give her a moment.

A sigh escaped her lips as she looked up at the sky, already darkening earlier and earlier as the days passed.

It seemed like a choice in her head—Leroy or Quinn. Leroy's logic or Quinn's curiosity. Leroy's presence for years and Quinn's presence for months. Who to betray?

As she settled into her seat beside Quinn at the table upon returning inside, Rachel's heart stirred with regret at the realization that she didn't know which one to choose.

* * *

**A little notice—I have two important exams, one this week and one next week, but I'll be typing in between studying, so maybe I can update next week.**

**So, thanks for reading this and I hope I could partially fix your broken Faberry hearts and maybe form a Legion of Love to stop the trolling writers. **

**My codename would be General...something, because I'm forming this awesome Legion, à la Sue Sylvester. I don't know. I need to ponder a kickass codename...**


	12. Intensity

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee, _nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Greetings! Thanks for the comments about my exams...they weren't fantastic but I think I passed. Hopefully. So, enjoy!**

* * *

"Okay," Mr. Schue announced, as chatter in the room ceased gradually at the sound his voice. He brandished a stack of slips and beamed at the club. "Let's talk Sectionals."

"Here we go," Mike murmured in exasperation, and Rachel sighed quietly.

Mr. Schuester's practices were becoming increasingly frustrating by the day, and very time-consuming. Rachel was juggling schoolwork (which was simple, actually, with her intelligence), glee practice, extensive training, and being a perfect girlfriend, while managing to sneak in moments of 'bro-time' (Mike's words, not hers) with her best friend. Leroy wanted her to spend more time working out while Mike whined about weekend videogame competitions and Quinn questioned about private movie nights with her.

Rachel was letting a little too much pressure enter her schedule but she was determined to find some leeway in the hassle, sooner or later.

The director didn't hear the duo's disgruntlement as he passed out permission forms, eyes dancing with almost manic excitement.

"The competition is in _two_ days. Is anyone nervous? Anxious? Panicky? Rachel, any asthma problems? Should I call Ms. Pillsbury? Or the nurse? Or Figgins? Or your dad?"

"Decaf," Mike proclaimed with a saccharine smirk, utilizing his new catchphrase. The others giggled in amusement as Mr. Schue frowned, looking insulted.

Rachel shifted in her seat, silently mortified that she almost forgotten about her false condition. Maybe Leroy was right—she _was_ slipping.

"You guys, I personally haven't been to a Sectionals competition since my days in high school. I can't be happy for you?"

"Obsessed," Santana grumbled. "Happy doesn't begin to describe how insane, nitpicky, encouraging, and _bubbly _you've been, Mr. Schue. It's exhausting to _look_ at you."

"We do need a day off," Rachel prompted, ulterior motive in place already, recalling an ad she found in Leroy's daily newspaper. "We haven't been able to relax."

Mr. Schue nodded absentmindedly, brows furrowing in thought. "I guess that's right...you know what? Take today off, and we'll go easy tomorrow, okay?"

The group muttered their appreciation grabbing their bags and Rachel nodded to Mike as he left, and the Loric girl waited for Quinn to finishing speaking with Brittany. Santana grew impatient and yanked Brittany away mid-sentence, and the couple watched Brittany wave cheerily as the door closed, and Quinn rolled her eyes, annoyed.

"She's such an asshat. I was actually having a very stimulating discussion about the merits of ducks and doves with Brittany."

"That must've been enlightening."

"It was. Did you know birds are usually monogamous?"

"I didn't know that, geek."

"Did you know a dove and a pigeon are exactly the same?"

"I did."

Quinn drew breath to speak again, and Rachel pressed her palm against Quinn's mouth, grinning.

"How about we skip this fantastically fascinating conversation about inconsequential, unimportant bird facts and instead get into your car and—"

"What are we doing in the car?" Quinn mumbled mischievously behind Rachel's fingers, wiggling her eyebrows in a suggestive fashion. Rachel giggled.

"Driving."

"What _kind_ of driving? Because you can do a lot of things...in a car. With each other. To each other."

"Normal driving, Quinn. Focus. Let's also skip the homework, too and then _you_ can follow my directions. We're going on a trip."

* * *

"Why are we in Akron?" Quinn questioned, peering at Rachel from the corner of her eye. "This 'trip' is getting stranger by the minute."

"It's a surprise."

"A surprise," the blonde mused, pretending to think about it. "You aren't a Mormon, clearly...I'm hoping you won't lead me to my doom with that _cute_ little smile."

"Where did you get that idea?" Rachel joked, flashing her teeth.

"Your secretive nature and zero information on this trip...far, far away from home and safety," Quinn teased. "How am I supposed to _not_ be suspicious?"

Rachel pouted, and pointed to the left, and Quinn pulled into a parking lot, and turned off the engine, sending a sidelong, quizzical glance at her girlfriend, expectant.

Rachel reached into the backseat, scavenging in her backpack for the brochure she got in the mail, and handed it to Quinn, who looked positively floored with amazement.

"I saw that this gallery was doing a tribute on Ansel Adams, and knowing that you are a connoisseur in his work and that he was a pioneer in photography, so I just—"

She really, really didn't expect Quinn's reaction, though she did not mind in the least, which was nothing short of unbuckling her seatbelt in two short seconds, lunging across the console with the agility of a cheetah, and attacking Rachel's lips with her own, practically pinning Rachel to the door, something she also didn't mind one bit. Rachel's hands ghosted along Quinn's waist as the other girl nearly sat on her lap, and Quinn leaned back slightly, breathing heavily and mouth widening into a beam.

"You didn't!"

"I...did?" Rachel answered, befuddled, trying to regain her breath and wondering at the same time how Quinn had managed to steal it from her lungs. "...right?"

"You're the best girlfriend ever_,_" Quinn squealed delightedly, pecking Rachel's cheek and climbing back to her side of the car, leaving Rachel draped against the door, frozen.

Quinn shot Rachel a look when the brunette didn't move, trying not to laugh. Rachel wasn't even blinking, apparently still recovering from her Quinn-kiss-mauling.

"Come on, slowpoke! I don't want to miss this! Let's go!"

Rachel nodded blankly, fumbling for the car lock, nearly falling on the blacktop as she exited, silently grumbling that Quinn made her weaker than double training sessions.

* * *

"That was so perfect," Quinn swore, starry-eyed. "Did you see _Branches in Snow _and _Winter Sunrise_? Those are two of my all-time favorites _already_..."

"Yes," Rachel smiled adoringly, who'd actually spent the entire walk through the gallery looking at Quinn's awed expressions rather than the photographs, but didn't say so.

"I mean, this guy went through a lot," the blonde rambled, gesturing animatedly. "Forced homeschooling, no friends, illness, and he just produced all this...amazingness!"

Rachel's smile only widened, and she simply swung their joined hands in a longer arc, content to listen to her girlfriend's excitedly precious babbling.

She kept an eye on the stores, slyly leading them to a small shop she found online, while Quinn was totally oblivious, now dictating about the cons of street photography.

She planted her feet firmly on the ground, stilling Quinn's movement, and the ex-cheerleader halted in her tracks, tilting her head in confusion at the action.

"What's wrong?"

"Stay right here," Rachel ordered sternly, poking a finger at Quinn's nose, who swatted the brunette's hand away playfully. "I want to get something inside."

"It's an antique store."

"It is."

"So...old knickknacks tickle your fancy into a late-afernoon spending spree? Why am I not aware of this..._ism_?"

"No, and not exactly," Rachel answered, smiling warmly. "But I do need to get something in there. Would you mind waiting out here for me?"

"Why can't I see it?" Quinn grumbled, petulantly curious as she fixed her beret to its normal position over her ears.

"It's part of the surprise. Your surprise," Rachel insisted, standing a little higher on her toes and pressing a light kiss on Quinn's forehead. "Now, here. _Aqui, por favor._"

Quinn sulked and but acquiesced grudgingly, as Rachel ventured inside, greeting the shopkeeper with a polite nod. Quinn watched as he handed her a bag and then looked outside, spying Quinn and saying something to Rachel, who nodded again, grinning. The man laughed and Quinn's eyebrows rose as Rachel came back outside, holding the bag out for Quinn to take with a teasing, knowing beam and practically bounced in her sneakers in excitement while Quinn opened the gift, nearly dropping it in her haste.

"No way," Quinn breathed.

Her hands cradled an obsolete, delicately preserved press camera, dated back from the fifties. The metal saucer had been replaced, along with a new lightbulb, all attached to a single lens reflex category of the device. Inspecting the bag further, the blonde identified a few spare lenses, rolls of film, and a case to hold the camera for safekeeping.

Quinn gripped the handle and the opposite side with a look Rachel likened to fervent worship, and her heart swelled with pleasure.

"I've noticed the collection at your house was missing this iconic model," Rachel explained. "I thought you'd feel like a photographer straight out of the ages with this."

"This is unbelievable, Rachel," Quinn told her, gaze alight with grateful, endless admiration. She laughed a little at her awe, smiling buoyantly. "Where _did_ you come from?"

Rachel blushed, offering a small shrug of nonchalance, avoiding the innocent, unintentionally sensitive query.

"I counted the trip as our first official date," the brunette proposed shyly after a quick beat. "Because we hadn't really gone out for something special like this as a couple."

"It is special," Quinn agreed honestly. "It's perfect. I've never been on one so great before."

"Glad I could share it with you," Rachel returned, as her smile took a teasing slant. "We should give you a fancy pseudonym, Ms. Photographer."

"Hmm," Quinn reflected, amused. "I've always liked the name 'Charlie'."

"Sounds like a real winner."

* * *

Rachel's hands turned over her phone in rigid rotations, eyes forever fixed on the small, digitized numbers revealing the current time, and staring as if she could conjure a text from Leroy with her brain. Sadly, she did not possess that Legacy, and was left instead to worry and fret at the lack of communication with her Cêpan, totaling two hours now. Leroy decided, without listening to her indignation, that the day of Sectionals would be the right time to investigate the _They Walk Among Us_ website in Columbus. Taking his phone, a rifle ("for insurance," he insisted), and directions, the older Loric had driven away in their truck, leaving Rachel to wait for a ride from Quinn, free of ignoring the now absent police detail, personally removed by Russell and making Mr. Karofsky fracture his hand because he punched the wall so hard in his anger.

Granted, Leroy's voyage would take at least two hours anyhow, so Rachel's anxiety could be misplaced and just classified as errant uncertainty about her important solo.

Mr. Schue adamantly endorsed the use of Rachel's voice as the lead-in, ignoring Mercedes and Kurt's protests, while Rachel nodded absently the day before, consenting to it.

Unfortunately, Mr. Schue sank into lower approval from the club as Finn was the only available body to fill the twelfth spot, possibly by his own school-wide intimidation campaign. Needless to say, Rachel was a melting pot of heightening distress, subdued anger, and simple nervousness, making her stomach churn with fiery trepidation.

A source of her ire was Finn's grand apology, which included a shrug and an indifferent sorry, hands in his pockets as he looked at Quinn rather than Rachel. Typical.

Quinn was apoplectic, and threatened to quit (Santana, Mike, Brittany, Puck, and Matt at the same time) to Mr. Schue's alarm, but Rachel's murmured request stopped any resignations, quietly asking if everyone could stay so they could win and watch her solo. Unwillingly, with a dark sigh, (Quinn), shaken, enraged fists (Santana), loud swears (Puck), louder swears (Mike), an eye roll (Matt) and a pout (Brittany), Rachel managed to keep the club in one, countable piece and saving Mr. Schue from a panic attack.

A supportive Ms. Pillsbury tagged along with the group, and Rachel watched the redhead whisper with the glee director, both wearing identical smiles and shining eyes.

Rachel let her forehead rest on the aged leather of the bus, listening with adept ears to the almost soothing din of the rattling axles and revolving tires on the bumpy road.

"Feeling alright?"

Quinn's palm pressed flat on Rachel's back, playing a small, thoughtless drumbeat with her fingertips. Rachel sighed.

"Yes. Only nervous," she replied, half-heartedly scolding herself internally about the umpteenth incomplete truth to Quinn. "I have a big responsibility to achieve."

"You'll be amazing," Quinn promised earnestly. "I know it. We've all heard you sing, but the audience and the judges haven't yet. Once you start, we'll have it on the spot."

"I hope you're right," Rachel mumbled, surreptitiously checking her phone. No messages. Leroy _never_ left her out of the loop like this. Where would he be?

Mogadorians must have him. Leroy could wriggle out of anything else. Mogadorians were an entirely different story. Last time she checked, no one lived after meeting them.

"Here we are," Mr. Schue declared as the bus reached Dalton Academy, where the competition would be held between New Directions, Haverbrook, and Jane Addams.

The group filed off the bus, meeting Mike, Puck, and Matt, who drove Mike's (father's) truck to Westerville instead, citing themselves to be too cool for a lousy school bus. Mr. Schuester, clad in a suit and nearly skipping with merriment, lead the club inside and instructed them to go to the green room, where they would wait for their turn. Jane Addams was first, and Haverbrook's director had loudly insisted that his group be second, for 'fairness'. Not wanting to earn a lawsuit of some kind, the judges allowed it.

Rachel eyed the filling auditorium with another swing in the gut of unease, and ambled leisurely behind the others, bumping shoulders with a random boy on her way.

"Sorry," she offered absently.

The boy brushed his jacket, annoyed with both her accidental push and her presence, looking straight through her and nodding, and strode after his father without a word.

Opening the door and sidestepping Matt, Rachel found a seat on the couch with Quinn, where the assembly of glee members was silent.

_The waiting game begins_, Rachel thought, allowing her fingers to intertwine with Quinn's, squeezing back when the blonde did.

* * *

The others were relaxing as the performances started, announcing their pleased relief that Santana had caught wind of Sue's plan to make New Directions lose at Sectionals by giving the pair of rivals their setlist. Rachel remembered Santana's smugness upon the reveal, which had launched the club into action instead of turmoil due to the early notice, and they had complied another, secret setlist to debut at the very last minute, too late for Sue, Mr. Rumba, or Ms. Hitchens to change their nefarious, illegal plans.

Mr. Schue was confident enough to say he could bet on their victory and win big, with only a small chance of a pity vote from the judges to shift the wide odds.

They listened to Jane Addams drawl _Proud Mary _and then Haverbrook croak the same, both teams copying the dance routine, then two more New Directions songs.

Rachel felt her worry begin to lessen infinitesimally at the obviously pathetic mimicry of their talent and effort that would be poorly observed, but on the other hand...

Leroy was MIA. Still. The gap between their last conversation was now nearing three hours, more than enough for Leroy to have typed a quick, cursory text of his arrival.

Rachel's panic was making her limbs antsy and restless, and she sat up to pace, lip caught between her teeth and hands curling and rising to form a wringing, anxious knot.

"Rachel," Mr. Schue addressed suddenly in concern, all eyes flickering to her and her pacing stops, back and forth like a tennis match. "Are you okay?"

"Nervous," she ground out, experiencing a shiver of an unknown, nearly tangible sensation of fear. The feeling made her fingers twitch and her head to pound roughly.

"Is she having an asthma attack?" Kurt wondered skeptically. Finn, silent—Mr. Schue warned him of speaking aloud to anyone—just appraised at her in inquiry.

"I'm fine," Rachel snapped, and Mercedes muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "divatude" before wilting at intensely touchy glares from Quinn and Mike.

Meanwhile, the Loric teenager couldn't differentiate from stage fright to worrying about Leroy or the new, invisible jitters that were making her bones shudder with stress.

On the loudspeaker, the crowd was clapping for Haverbrook, and there would be a ten minute intermission that would precede New Directions.

Rachel exhaled slowly, struggling to force calmness into her system. Scrutinizing her cell phone, she found it devoid of a notification of any kind. Her headache twinged stronger than before at the realization, and felt her heartbeat hammer harder. Her gaze found a reflection of herself in a full-size mirror; she was pale and ghastly looking.

The interim between the intermission and her solo was dwindling at an agonizing stretch, giving time for her headache and pulse to gather immense pressure and speed.

What was _wrong_ with her?

She blinked, feeling Quinn tilt her chin up, making the brunette meet her eyes. Rachel watched Quinn's lips move before she remembered she should be listening to them.

"...okay? Mr. Schue says you look awful, Rach. I don't think you should go on like this either..."

"I'm fine," Rachel interrupted resolutely, shaking her head and suppressing a grimace. "I'm okay. Is it time for me to go yet?"

Quinn's eyes bored into hers and Rachel concentrated on holding them, pouring her best manufactured sincerity and creating a truthful demeanor at the same time.

"Yes," Quinn answered finally, stepping aside to let Rachel pass, and Mike patted what of Rachel's arm that he could reach as she walked past, looking uncertain as she left.

"Good luck!" Mr. Schue called encouragingly, but Rachel disappeared without acknowledging it, leaning the door ajar.

Quinn sighed, concern modifying her face into doubt as the first jumps of the trumpets and violins drifted through the speakers, followed by a melodious, familiar voice.

She couldn't suppress the proud grin, nor could Mike stop his smile, and the rest of the club couldn't remove the satisfied looks from their features as they filed outside.

"_Don't tell me not to live, just sit and putter. Life's candy and the sun's a ball of butter..."_

* * *

She was in control again. Enough control, at least.

Rachel, somehow, perhaps with a stroke of luck, or an extreme perseverance to feel better about _something _today, but she had managed to nudge her nervous energy into a conducive, workable vehemence that reflected into her voice. She had ripped open the curtains with an impassioned vivacity that hid the hodgepodge of emotions she was feeling and instead produced a vibrant, fierce figure, belting a song she admired as she strutted down the aisle, drawing reverent stares and a hushed, astonished audience.

She built up air in her lungs, transforming majestically in her task as she smiled at her spectators, interacting with them and pirouetting occasionally with a twirl of her arms. She paused by Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury, seated with proud, dazzled expressions as they gazed at her, and she moved on with an effortless grace. Rachel's path went backwards a few strides before she whirled around, smile becoming a determined set of her lips as her voice continued to rise with the lifting crescendo of the tune.

"..._ooh, life is juicy, juicy, and I've gotta have my bite, sir!_"

She reached the stage as her words grew in pitch and intensity, with the band picked up speed along with her, and her heart jumped into a quicker pace as her fellow singers appeared, Finn and Brittany in the lead, spotlights illuminating their beams and matching black outfits with flares of red. They assembled behind her in silence.

Her breaths became shorter and shorter as Rachel drew in power to belt the final verse, arms raising higher in tandem with her voice, and suddenly, her fears came alive.

The ascending of her hands into the heavens as she intoned her solo unexpectedly pressured her brain into an uncomfortably, restored headache, which prompted the difficultly suppressed shivers of fear, also reawakening the tangibly substantial anxiety, making it surround her body like a corporeal cage of disjointed, muted pain.

Her hands shook with a strange power as she forced out the last words with a furious shout. In the distance, her ears heard the groaning of pipes, as if being ripped apart.

Overhead, the stage supports trembled and creaked, and as her fingers moved slightly, the noises grew in volume. The lights flickered a bit, but no one noticed.

"_My heart's a drummer. Nobody, no, nobody is gonna rain __on __my __parade!"_

She hitched a tight smile on her face to the roaring applause, and sensing Quinn's pride, flung her hand back and forcibly grinned: "Ladies and gentleman, New Directions!"

As they organized themselves to sing their next number, Rachel knew in an instant what Legacy_—_the nervousness and terror and eddy of subtle pain_—_she had received.

Telekinesis, the one all Loric children in the Garde gained when they were matured and ready, and Leroy was not there to help her.

* * *

"That was unreal," Puck yelled, when they escaped the auditorium, Artie holding the first-place trophy on his lap, as the others were giddy with an excited, frenzied fever.

"I'm so proud of all of you," Mr. Schue announced, hugging Ms. Pillsbury and then a nearby Mercedes and Brittany in his eagerness.

"Glad I could make it," Finn murmured, almost surprised, to himself, although only Rachel to hear it.

Rachel's attention was on her phone, and her dismay and fear mounted to cataclysmic proportions when she saw she had no messages nor missed calls from her Cêpan.

Mr. Schue steered them into a pizza place to celebrate, and Rachel excused herself to the bathroom, locking the door behind her after checking she was completely alone.

Drawing her bottom lip between her teeth, Rachel extended her hand forward, and concentrated on the spiraling, almost uncontrollable unease fogging up her brain.

The handsoap on the counter shuddered in its place, and Rachel's lips pursed into a hard line. The container rose, hovering placidly in the air as if hung by invisible string.

Manipulating the flux of unstable emotions she was struggling to freeze, she rotated her hand, making the handsoap turned counterclockwise, spinning in a lazy circle.

Great. Telekinesis...moderately in the bag. That's one thing she didn't really have to worry about. Damn it, Leroy was right again. She was a worrier.

She set it down, looking at herself in the mirror. Her eyes stared into her own reflection, forcing herself to think. Westerville was only about a half hour drive to Columbus. She could theoretically go there, find Leroy, but...how to explain that? Mr. Schue and Ms. Pillsbury wouldn't let a minor walk around in a foreign place without a parent. How could she leave without—Mike! Mike had a truck! He could drive her. Rachel's hands gripped the counter in frustration. She'd have to explain the reason for the trip. Why waste gas on a short trip to see her father, who had his own truck? Besides Mike being her best friend, she couldn't just leave him in the dark about something like this.

She needed help. Mike was her only nearby, logical assistance, and to save Leroy, she'd have to break one of the cardinal rules—tell him the truth.

The real truth: her secret, the Mogadorians, her Legacies, the clues about his father's disappearance...the list was endless, and extremely dangerous to even consider.

Honesty was never her strong suit. She was accustomed to lying—it was second nature. She'd have to really sell it to Mike; he'd never believe her if she couldn't be serious.

Splashing water on her face to regain her composure, Rachel drew in a giant breath and walked outside, where Mike was in line with the others to buy sodas.

"Mike," she muttered, grabbing his elbow and pulling him from the chattering group. "I need your help."

"Sure, Superstar," he grinned, still in an energized buzz about the New Directions victory. "What's up?"

"We need to use your car," Rachel told him, and Mike's smile faded a little, brow creasing in subdued concern. "You and I need to leave."

"What's up?" He repeated, his tone void of humor and filling with uncertainty. "We just got here, Rach..."

"It's my dad," she whispered. "I think he's in trouble."

Mike's expression was a mix—disbelief, unease, vexed, hesitant, curious—before he settled on vacantly impassive. "What do you mean?"

Rachel bit her lip, glancing down at her flats before looking up at him with a pleading, unhappy gaze as she barely breathed: "I can explain it outside."

Mike let the words sink in, torn between trusting her implicitly and questioning if this was an intricate prank, but he simply sighed and nodded in defeat.

"Hey, Mr. Schue?" Mike called, turning halfway from her and to the group finding a table. "Rachel and I are gonna get some air on the curb. It's a little hot in here."

"It's December," Kurt offered suspiciously. "Of course it's hot in here."

Quinn rose to help, but Santana clamped a hand on her wrist and hissed something about being too clingy and the blonde settled, looking perturbed. Rachel felt guilty.

"Don't go too far," Mr. Schue replied obliviously. "Come back in a few, okay?"

Mike nodded and followed the Loric girl outside, they traipsed to a dimly lit alley beside the pizza shop, shivering a little in the cold. Rachel looked up at Mike, almost sadly.

"I can't allow you to overreact. Please, promise me, Mike. You're the only one I can trust right now and I need you to be calm for this."

"I won't," Mike vowed automatically, confused. "Overreact about what, by the way? What the hell is going on? You aren't making sense."

Rachel's eyes were imploring now as she exhaled shakily before extending her palms in his direction, watching the vibrantly indigo gleam begin to illuminate the night.

She'd never shown a human her power before. The sight of a pair of hands with a luminous, sapphire tinge would certainly be a rare occurrence indeed.

Mike sputtered in alarm, stumbling backwards into the brick wall, gaze stricken and mouth gaping soundlessly in open terror and extreme bafflement.

_He'll be trying to find a solution,_ Rachel mused. _Something to explain what his eyes see and his brain refuses to acknowledge._

Rachel extinguished the glow and stared at him beseechingly, close to hopeless tears—_how_ was this a good idea, she wondered—and stepped closer, only for Mike to flinch.

"Just...just, just," Mike stammered wildly. "S-st-stay over there. I...I'm...I need to...process this," he added hoarsely, gawking at her. "Rachel, what...how is this possible?"

_Shit, shit, shit._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Concurrently to their conversation, Rachel ran a colorful monologue of angry swears in her head, trying to collect herself. Mike's reactions were making her too anxious.

"It's not a joke," Rachel countered instead, feebly. "It's real. I can do this on command, Mike. I'm not like you."

"Not like me?" He repeated, finding his footing and standing close to the wall, still reflexively skittish of her. "What does _that_ mean?"

"I will tell you," she hedged. "But what I can promise _you_ is that I am not making fun of you. This isn't a prank. It's me. I'm different. I'm not from Lima...or anywhere."

"Anywhere?" Mike inquired, playing nervously with his red tie, dragging his fingernails through his scalp in quelled agitation. "Please...Rachel. Explain yourself."

"Do you remember...when you told me all of those conspiracy theories?" Rachel asked. "And about your father? Do you remember the hayride?"

"Conspiracy theories?" Mike echoed. "Yeah, of..." His brow wrinkled in realization, jaw setting and Rachel could hear his chest tighten. "...course. The alien theories."

"Yes."

Mike didn't answer, but his eyes flashed with increasing rage, cheeks flushing with blood at the emotion. "Rachel...why would you say that?"

"This isn't a prank," Rachel insisted firmly. "Mike, would you like me to say it?"

"Say what?" Mike sneered, a nasty laugh escaping his mouth. "An alien? That's _hilarious_, Rachel. I thought we were cool. I didn't know you were an asshole."

His movements indicated his indignantly furious desire to go, and when he moved, Rachel rushed forward, fingers gripping his shirt collar and lifting him two feet in the air.

"What..." Mike gasped, hands wrapping futilely, desperately, around her wrist as she held him upright, a feat that looked impossible in terms of their weight and strengths.

"If I can't say it," Rachel hissed, watching Mike's pupils dilate in unholy fright, "than I can prove it. Do you want me to break your arm? Or your fingers? I can, you know."

"Like you broke Karofsky's jaw?" Mike squeaked, shoes wiggling helplessly in the air below his legs.

Girl and boy, the alien keeping the human aloft against the wall, was certainly an odd sight. Rachel chuckled darkly.

"Exactly," she replied, expression morphing into a terrible glower. "You don't want me angry, Mike. That wasn't even my full strength. And this? No sweat at all."

"Cool," Mike squawked, voice quavering with fear. "I believe you. I swear."

"I'll let you down in a second," the Loric teenager vowed as her eyes softened into expressive pools of sorrow and hurt. "I thought _you_ were different, Mike. I thought you would be one of the few I would tell that wouldn't react like this," Rachel admitted, sounding as if she was suppressing heavy tears. "I didn't think you were the asshole."

"Rachel," Mike mumbled sheepishly, remorseful. "I didn't—"

"I understand," Rachel acquiesced, releasing her grip gently, allowing him to land safely on his feet. "I just wished I could count on you...but, please, just don't tell anyone."

"I'll help you," Mike pledged, disagreeing with her. "I will, and just look at that stupid moment as a dick move, okay? It was kinda necessary. I was freaking out on you."

Rachel stared at the dancer in utter confusion, head tilting to the side as she examined his face in silence.

"Didn't you hear me? I'll help you," Mike insisted sternly. "I'm cool now. It's...weird. You gotta know that. I've just...you're an _alien._ This shit doesn't happen in real life."

He dragged a hand across his face, as if pulling himself from a dream and into reality, only to realize it was undeniable; she wasn't human and telling the truth about it.

"It is real life," Rachel smiled humorlessly. "This is my life. You and Quinn and the others are just caught in it...on my mistake."

Mike scrutinized her closely before clearing his throat.

"What's the plan?" He asked, jumping right to issue at hand. "You needed my truck, right? What's going with your dad? Is he in trouble or something?"

"I believe he's been kidnapped," Rachel answered softly, and sucked in a breath of courage before adding regretfully, "by the same people who kidnapped _your_ father."

* * *

**I'm still reeling from _Glee. _Anyone else? And honestly, how the (excuse my language) fuck are we supposed to ship Finchel?**

**I cannot and will not get over it. Any other ship in the fandom is okay, except this one. I refuse to like it. Rachel needs better.**

**Sorry for the babble. Hope this chapter was enjoyed. :)**


	13. Skirmish

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Here's a update, created from the interestingly awful boredom and frustration with school. Sigh. Anyway, someone recommended me on Tumblr! Thanks, LivinginBedlam! Anyway, this c****hapter is long and good—bahaha, that's what she said—and I hope you all enjoy it!**

* * *

The color vanished from Mike's cheeks and his eyes bulged—the Loric girl winced, waiting for an explosion—before he could manage in a dazed, strangled croak: "What?"

"I can explain it in detail to you later, Mike," Rachel vowed, grim. "I will, but we don't have a lot of time. Leroy's been out of contact with me for about four hours now."

"Leroy?" Mike's eyebrows quirked, suppressing his directionless, bewildered grief and looking at her in curiosity at the apparent mistake in identity.

"Oh, right, sorry," Rachel replied, peering distractedly at the time. "He's not my father...he's more of a guardian or a chaperone. Think Obi-Wan Kenobi to Luke Skywalker."

"Oh," Mike echoed, almost squeakily, life returning to his features but adding a jumpy, nervous air about himself. "Okay. Okay. Okay. Yeah. Let's do this. It's go time."

Mike turned to march out of the alley, as if determinedly on a mission, before Rachel seized his wrist and yanked him back, hissing, "we need an excuse first, moron!"

The dancer obediently stilled, the pair keeping back into the cover of the alleyway, and both friends looked contemplative for a moment. Mike tapped his chin, deliberating.

"Your mother was in a horrible car accident, and you need to go with your dad to the hospital."

"Mike, I already told everyone my mother isn't with us and she died when I was little."

"Did she?" Mike asked automatically. "Because I'm starting to question everything you've said—"

"Yes! Think of something else!" Rachel shrieked in impatience, stomping her foot so hard the pavement splintered, spiderweb cracks spreading from each side of her foot.

"What about a distant family member? Or an uncle?" Mike suggested defensively. "Leroy is really upset and needs you there. Luckily, I'm the ride there. Problem solved."

Rachel sighed, but acquiesced, and the duo returned to the pizza place, and the club glanced at them curiously. Rachel addressed Mr. Schuester, adopting a morose grimace.

"Mr. Schue, I'm afraid I have to leave our celebration. My dad says that his uncle died...and," Rachel paused as her voice hushed in fabricated misery, letting Mike step hard on her foot, her eyes misting up in response, "and I really need to go to Westerville to see my..._his_ aunt. Mike's going to drive me, if that's okay with Matthew and Noah?"

"Sure," Puck and Matt replied together, hurried nods to placate the wide-eyed, teary girl, who looked immensely grateful and smiled through her 'despair'.

"Of course, Rachel," Mr. Schue urged understandingly. "Go ahead. The boys will take the bus back with us, it's no problem. I'm sorry about your loss."

"Thanks," Rachel sobbed, and Mike patted her shoulder in fake pity, biting his tongue. The others allowed Quinn to slide past them and the blonde wrapped her arms around her girlfriend, and Rachel drew her away from the group, and Mike jumped into absentminded small-talk with the group, giving nods and agreeable frowns in Rachel's direction. Rachel tightened her grip on Quinn for an entirely different reason—not comfort but fear, total, overwhelming terror at the thought of the Mogadorians harming Leroy, Mike, and herself—and pressed her lips lightly to Quinn's throat, breath tickling the skin of Quinn's exposed collarbone. Quinn sighed, pulling back to look at her.

"Call me when you get there," the blonde requested, voice softer than a whisper and seeming to radiate pure comfort. "And call me if you need to afterwards..."

"Thanks," Rachel replied, and Quinn's gaze scrutinized her eyes, almost checking of her sincerity. Rachel's stomach squirmed, hopeful she looked distraught enough.

Quinn seemed to possess the ability to sense her lies, but employed a contrasting one to ignore them. She always ignored them, it appeared, to Rachel, as if waiting to be told the truth. Guilt and shame spiraled wretchedly in Rachel's mind, wishing fervidly that she could spit it out, explain everything she knew and remembered to the most important person in the world to her. Quinn should've known before Mike, but Mike was a necessity. Quinn was a luxury. She couldn't hold on to both. Quinn's ignorance would be better for the both of them in the end, but as Rachel held Quinn's stare for the second time of the day, severe remorse and self-hatred made her want to scream.

"I hope everything will work out," Quinn told her quietly, as if reading her inter-turmoil by an uncanny sense of telepathy. "I'll be here for you if you need me, Rachel."

The ex-cheerleader's observing gaze revealed differently, saying that she'd be around for honesty when Rachel could offer it. Rachel, throat closed tightly, nodded mutely.

In other words, Quinn—in Rachel's opinion—could tell she was nothing more than a liar, and liked her enough to wait for what the blonde hoped to be an inevitable reveal.

Rachel's self-depracating mind took another, powerfully painful swing at her gut, poignant regret on her conscious making her nearly burst into real, genuine tears.

How could she save Leroy, evade Mogadorians, help Lorien, hold on to Quinn with a brittle grip, and resemble a normal human without tearing herself apart in the process?

Surely she'd break into pieces, wouldn't she?

Quinn's eyes appeared to soften, regretfully, as if sensing Rachel's anguish permeating her own body and realized her bounds have been overstepped at last.

"Come on, Rach," Mike called suddenly, seeming to realize her predicament and diverting her excruciating train of thought. "Your dad must be a complete wreck right now."

She couldn't move until Quinn's arms and eyes released her, and the blonde squeezed her hands once and pressed a kiss to the brunette's lips before returning to her seat.

Rachel waved sadly the others as she could—surprisingly easier, seeing as she was leaving Quinn again, both physically and mentally—and followed Mike outside.

"'S okay, Zor-El," Mike joked lamely, unlocking the car to the pair to climb inside and buckle their seatbelts. "Your Lois Lane will know eventually, right?"

"Hope so," Rachel answered dully, leaning her forehead against the window, letting her desolate expression and phony tears fade into tense worry. "Told you, didn't I?"

Mike nodded, turning the key, and the engine thundered to life, and he reversed the vehicle from the parking spot, leaving the cafe and in Rachel's case, her heart behind.

* * *

"So," the dancer blurted out awkwardly, keeping the radio off and sidling a sideways, prying glance at Rachel as he grasped for a topic. "What planet are you from, Rach?"

"Lorien," Rachel answered gloomily. "You've never heard of it. 'S pretty far away."

"Lorien," Mike mused, as if listening to the unfamiliar ring in the pronunciation. "Interesting."

"Yup."

Mike grumbled. "Least you could do is give me the skinny, Rachel—I am the human assisting you in your epic journey of self-discovery and saving the world from disaster."

Rachel couldn't help but smirk a little in amusement, mood lifting a fraction, and Mike laughed.

"Fine. You already know the bad guys...from your last issue of _They Walk Among Us. _That's where we're going now: the pamphlet headquarters in Westerville."

Mike's lips pursed, remembering the booklet he'd read once before it went missing. "Hmm. Refresh me, would you? Gotta be prepared."

"Mogadorians," Rachel voiced, humor evaporating instantly as an internal and external strain returned to her shoulders, and Mike nodded.

"Mogadorians," he repeated. "Go on."

"They're after me, specifically," the brunette elaborated, eyes fixed on her hands. "I'm next on the list."

"List?" Mike inquired.

Rachel sighed. "My name isn't Rachel Berry, Mike. The _list_ pertains to the order of my...comrades, so to speak. My real name is Number Four, or...well, Four, and the first three Lorics are dead, _ergo_, I am the next one to be hunted by the Mogadorians. Upon my—hopefully not—demise, they'll move on to Number Five, and so on and so forth."

Mike looked flabbergasted, and it was another few minutes and a few more streets before he could gather himself again.

"So can I _call_ you Four or—"

"No."

"Okay, then," Mike countered, unfazed, whistling a little under his breath and flicking a turn signal. "Wow. How many comrades do you have?"

"Originally? Nine. Now, it's just the six of us left, plus the Cêpan for each individual Loric—our guardians—and we've just being trying to...you know, live. Hide, I suppose."

"How long have you been here?"

"Ten years," Rachel answered, quiet. "We've planned to return home but the Mogadorians are making it considerably difficult for us."

"They just..._kill_? That's it? No reason or anything solid?"

"My hypothesis entails that they intend to take over Earth like they did Lorien, because the evidence adds up. We...well, _I_ won't leave until they're all dead, to save Earth."

Mike nodded agreeably, before his brow crinkled in a look akin to wonder.

"So Quinn is dating an alien. Nice."

Rachel's lips curled into a small smile, both one of levity and one of slight concern at the same time. "She is."

"When are you going to tell her?" Mike asked, unexpectedly stern. "She can't be kept in the dark forever because that never, _ever_ works out."

It doesn't. The lady has to know about her hero's gifts, or shit would hit the fan, regardless of the villain's schemes or disasters. He would repeat, the lady _has_ to know.

"I don't know," Rachel responded, voice quavering, and before Mike could reach over to console her, she stiffened and calmed down, becoming formal, hardened, and cold.

Mike sighed. So much for support. He watched from the corner of his eye as the truck slowed into a parking spot at the right address, Rachel's feelings appear to wane from view, as if they were being suppressed for future consideration. His frown deepened—he wanted _his_ Rachel, not this emotionless, driven alien (still, whoa) who didn't..._feel._

"Hey," Mike pressed. "Rachel."

"What?" The brunette queried in a snap, gaze fixed on the shabby condition of a house across the street, not looking at him. Mike tapped her shoulder impatiently. "_What_?"

"You're still you, right?" Mike asked, tone somewhat small and hesitant. "You're not, like, a two-faced psycho alien without a real heart or something?"

Rachel's shoulders dipped from their rigid position, guiltily, and she turned in her seat to look at him with sorrowful eyes. "No, Mike. I'm just scared that Leroy is hurt."

Mike didn't look convinced. Rachel grabbed his free hand, gently, demonstrating a point, and brushed her fingertips across his skin, lightly.

"If I didn't have a heart, I wouldn't have tried to stop the favoritism with Figgins," the girl murmured. "If I didn't have a heart, we wouldn't be friends, and I would not be dating Quinn. I do feel, Michael. I'm not too different from you. I'm the same age, the same genetic makeup, just evolved to a stronger, more powerful breed, that's all."

Mike just looked at her.

"Mike, I'm nervous, I swear," Rachel promised. "If I didn't care about anyone, I wouldn't know that Quinn clandestinely adores sweets and that you secretly love hugs."

Mike blushed, agreeing with that, and Rachel smiled a bit, releasing his hand from her own.

"Exactly. You guys are very important to me because no one's treated me—besides Leroy and my grandparents—with such kindness before. Do you believe me now?"

"Yeah," he allowed.

"Good," she replied, returning her eyes to the house. "I would ask that you stay in the truck, but your sidekick-like tendencies tell me you would just disobey eventually."

"Preach," Mike grinned, grabbing a baseball bat from his backseat. Rachel raised an incredulous eyebrow, and Mike shrugged.

"Matt and I play Puck and Finn occasionally, before Finn became a complete douche."

"Oh. Well, at least you have something decent to defend yourself," Rachel agreed, unbuckling her seatbelt and clambering outside, shutting the door behind her.

Mike met her on the other side, twirling the bat experimentally before pausing, cocking his head to the left. "What about you? I have a spare bat in the back, too."

All he received as they hurriedly crossed the street was a sly, mocking smile and a little, contemptuous laugh that made shivers go down his spine.

* * *

Between Mike unhelpfully humming _Mission Impossible _("Stop humming to terrible movies!" Rachel hissed, and Mike sneered, affronted) and the return of the torrential, swirling mass of nerves into her chest, the brunette wasn't appeased upon their arrival at the front door. Following Mike's instruction, Rachel peeked over the untidy shrubs and into the living room, where quick flickers and clips of noise filtered from the television, and a silhouette could be seen in the armchair, loud snores permeating Rachel's eardrums. Nudging Mike sideways, the duo snuck along side of the house, and using Mike's cell phone as flashlight, located a storm cellar half-hidden in the ground. Rachel's fingers felt along the hatch surface and could make out the grooves a few rusty padlocks, interlinked and clamped together around the door handles, to Rachel's frustration.

She curled a grip around the metal, and biting her lip, wrenched the locks apart with muffled, shrill screeches into the blustery, frigid night. Mike winced.

"Random thought," Mike mumbled conversationally as Rachel deposited the tarnished fragments on the grass. "Do you laugh at alien movies because they're wrong?"

"Mike, seriously?" Rachel snapped in a whisper. "Now?"

"Jeez, just asking a simple question," Mike grumbled. "_Sorry._"

Rachel lifted a finger to her lips and lifted the doors with telekinesis, watching as both opened in unison, before flattening backwards in the opposite direction. Mike gasped.

"You've got TK? That is so kickass!"

"Mike, shut up! Please!"

Mike zipped his mouth and pocketed his phone as Rachel lit her palms, the blue blaze almost eerie in the darkness. Carefully, they descended the stairs into the basement.

Rachel waited until they were both inside to shut the inner doors, a simple set of wood, and turned around, her Lumen illuminating in a steady, bright stream of sapphire.

"Second random thought," Mike breathed faintly, cradling his baseball bat with clammy hands, "that glove thing was a lie, right?"

"Mike," Rachel growled lowly, but sighed. "If you must know, yes. I lied you quite a lot, actually, and Quinn, and it kills me. Would you _shut _up now, please?"

Mike nodded obediently and all was silent again in the cellar except for the light breathing from the pair and the dusty, discordant noises of their feet on the dirty floor.

Sweat broke out on Rachel's forehead as they turned a corner, and her eyes widened in shock, horror, and mingled relief, making her vaguely dizzy.

Leroy—_freaking _finally, Rachel couldn't help but internally scowl—was strung up by his wrists, hanging motionless as his head drooped down in unconsciousness. His height made his legs bend, too tall to hang completely in the air, and small cuts were lodged on his arms and face. Rachel kept one hand ignited and used the other extinguished hand to undo Leroy's restraints, as Mike stood guard. Rachel caught her Cêpan's form as he collapsed, and prodded him awake, poking his ear until he stirred, groggily.

"Leroy," Rachel whispered, as his eyes cleared and dilated in pure shock, "hey. This is why you haven't texted me back?"

"Unfortunately, yes," he answered ruefully under his breath, standing up on his own now and glancing almost disapprovingly at Mike. "What's he doing here?"

"He's my ride," Rachel replied, eyebrows furrowing together in annoyance. "I had to tell him. Before you freak, I repeat, I _had_ to. I don't want to hear your _bitching_, okay?"

Leroy's lips quirked into a slight smile, accepting that, and Rachel relaxed. Mike giggled nervously, gripping the bat handle tighter.

"Feeling all right, Mike?" Leroy asked kindly, attitude softening to the jittery ex-football player. "It's perfectly fine to be scared in a situation like this."

"Great," Mike squeaked. "Just...uh, you know. Helping my fellow man—alien! Helping my fellow alien and all...yeah, Jimmy Olsen copycat, at your service, Kryptonians."

"Supergirl," Rachel grumbled indignantly.

Leroy pointed to himself. "Zor-El. And we're Lorics, Mike, not Kryptonians. Kryptonians do not exist outside of comic books and fanboy conventions."

"Whatever," Mike hissed, offended. "Now let's get out of..." His eyes flickered to the floor above, fearfully, as noise above began to drift groundward. "...here."

Upstairs, a door slammed and heavy steps stomped around angrily, seeming to belong to at least two men. Rachel's ears perked up at the heated conversation, inquisitive.

_"...serious shit we're in, you know that?"_

_"What are we gonna do now?"_

_"I don't know. Interrogate the prisoner again?"_

Leroy's eyes darkened in subdued dislike. "These men tried to 'interrogate' me all day, and it was quite unpleasant. We need to leave."

"What did they do?" Rachel breathed, as the door squeaked open and a light appeared at the base of the stairs. Mike ambled closer to Leroy instinctively.

The trio became silent, spreading out at Leroy's gestured mandate so they were nearly invisible to the converging reporters. Rachel made her palm fade as the steps neared.

Leroy waited until the men turned the corner, eyes widening at their missing captive, and with a loud yell, attacked. The Cêpan and nerd jumped on the first astonished man, while Rachel leaped for the second, tackling him like a linebacker would an opposing fellow on the line of scrimmage and slammed a crushing fist against his jaw, pinning his arms when he tried to fight back. Rachel aimed a quick punch at his chest, making the human huff and wheeze at the force, grunting a swear as he struggled to push her off. Rachel extended her hand to a table where a few tools laid, and a roll of duct tape soared into her arms, where she promptly taped the man's mouth, and bound his arms together, securing each wrist parallel to the other. Before the man could react further, Rachel bashed a hard blow to his nose, temporarily stunning him.

The reporter rested exhaustedly, glaring at Rachel with furious, hostile eyes, and she climbed off him snidely, seeing that Leroy and Mike had knocked out the other man.

"We have our snitch," Rachel announced defiantly, and the man growled behind his hindrance, while Mike emitted a second, nervous giggle.

"Mike," Leroy remarked, kindly again, "why don't you go...stand over there? And stand...guard?"

Mike nodded, reclaiming his baseball bat and marching to the doorway, turning his back. The other reporter, unconscious and restrained, was sprawled against the wall.

Rachel lifted a chair from the corner and Leroy shoved the first man onto it, and added another roll of tape around the man's shoulders and legs, fastening him to the chair.

Rachel ripped off the tape, allowing herself to indulge in a small bit of viciousness, making the reporter howl in rage.

"Hey, watch it!" He growled, blanching at the sting, and Rachel stepped on his foot, pettily. The writer scowled, unable to escape, and Rachel placed her hands on her hips.

"You're working with them, aren't you?" The brunette questioned. The man glowered, shifting uselessly, futilely.

"They told us that you would come eventually—they said that you're pretending to be humans to enslave us! You're the enemy, and we tried to warn our readers!"

"He's delusional," Leroy muttered uneasily. "Scared out his wits and halfway brainwashed."

"How many?" Rachel asked the journalist, who squirmed, looking terrified. Beads of swat gathered on his scalp and his jowls flushed red. Rachel could hear his heart pound.

"Three."

"When did they show up?" Leroy asked quietly.

"R-r-right after we printed the issue," the reporter stammered. "We had the name from a source and then, out of nowhere, they showed up...it was at night."

"What did they look like?"

"Pale skin," he prattled, words tumbling fervently from his lips in his fright. "L-like ghosts. Albinos, I'd say. Black trenchcoats, tall as basketball players, tattoos...sunglasses."

"Sunglasses?" Rachel repeated, exchanging a look with Leroy, who tiled his head to the side, meaningfully. He knew this fact, Rachel did not. She turned back to the man.

"Their eyes," the writer whimpered, eyes enlarging to resemble dinner plates, his breaths quick and petrified. "B-b-black holes...I saw...things. Lots of things. Awful, it was."

"What did you see?"

Rachel was disconcerted, and by the shuffling of Leroy's feet, he was too. This man wasn't his captor anymore; he was a terrified, helpless human ensnared in a dilemma.

The Mogadorians had really shaken him up, more than anything he would be used to. Rachel listened to his nearly panted reply, trepidation growing in her heart.

"Shit that used to scare me as a kid. Clowns, the dark, giant spiders, demons...my throat hurt from screaming so loud," he admitted. "They just laughed at us."

The Lorics allowed him a moment of reprieve, and he gulped down breaths of air like he was asphyxiating in a closed coffin. The reporter went on, still sweating noticeably.

"What do you know about them?" Rachel inquired.

"Group of aliens, tryin' to take over the planet," he conceded quickly. "They showed up on our doorstep not a week after getting the info from our source."

"Source?" Leroy queried, brow quirking up. No Loric would dare, or even want, to reveal information—well, besides Rachel—to a human, willingly. Rachel eyed the writer.

The man regained a bit of his defiance, spine straightening imperceptibly.

"I can't reveal my source. Confidentiality agreement. Standard practice in journalism since the dawn of time."

"Listen," Rachel snapped, anger anew in her address, "my friend over there? He's human. But he isn't stupid, and he's got a bat. Does Nancy Kerrigan ring a bell to you?"

The reporter turned whiter than a bed sheet, and Mike inhaled a muffled gasp, while Leroy nodded firmly, as if agreeing to enforce the ugly promise.

"Okay, okay. This guy called...'bout a month ago. He sounded weird, or something, like he was high as a kite or definitely tripping on something. Raved like a maniac."

"And?"

"He didn't make a whole lotta sense, but we managed to record some of the coherent shit, and he was talking about torturing one of these _Mogadorians_ for information. The Mog apparently spilled the beans about these Loric people—guessing that's you a-holes—and we tracked his number, but it was about eighty miles north of Columbus. Anyway, this guy claimed to be an astronomer or something," the reporter concluded, and Mike stiffened, peeking sharply over his shoulder. "He mentioned numbers—"

"Numbers?" Rachel blurted out in plain surprise, and Leroy's gaze turned hard. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know," the man barked. "We just wrote everything down. We're an believer website, so, we always look for anything valuable. He said the numbers are important."

"Where are your notes?" Rachel asked impatiently, and the man nodded his head pointedly to the table with the tools, where a bulletin board hung from the wall. Leroy stepped in her spot to watch the prisoner while Rachel hurried to the board, scanning the tacked papers until she spotted a scribbled, messy record on smudged, lined paper.

She snatched it from its location, and bit her tongue in her haste, examining the commentary with anxious eyes and bated breath, chest billowing in open anticipation.

_PLANET LORIEN? THE LORIC?_

_1-3 DEAD_

_4?_

_7 TRAILED IN SPAIN._

_9 ON THE RUN IN SA._

_(WHAT IS HE TALKING ABOUT? WHAT DO THESE NUMBERS HAVE TO DO WITH INVADING EARTH?)_

Rachel's heart swelled in a rapid, heavy tangle of apprehension and subdued distress. The Mogadorian hostage—an its supposedly human tormenter, which was something both good and bad—revealed its knowledge (and the knowledge of its fellows) of the whereabouts of her race, as if the Mogadorians were waiting to pounce. That must be it. Their awareness of the others only indicated their leading choice for a preemptive strike, believing it better to be cognizant of their target until their target was the current prize. If they got her, they could search for Five and Six, then eagerly and simply trail after Seven, and with the rebellion lessening one by one, could catch Eight, and finally, Nine.

This was treasured intelligence for her side, at least, but if not acted upon, could result in the death of everyone, including her.

Once again, she was reminded of her own grave predicament, better known as the understood death warrant on herself. They all depended, consciously or not, on her.

"What else can you tell us?" She murmured finally, when the silence had stretched longer than a minute. Leroy titled his head again, observing closely.

"The light hurts," the reporter commented softly, hesitantly, his gaze lifting resolutely to the ceiling. "They don't like taking off the sunglasses. It looks uncomfortable."

On the floor above, massive, weighty treads could be heard in the direction of the front door, which unlocked slowly, creakily, as if to suppress the noise, to be undetectable.

"You called them?" Leroy whispered harshly. Mike flinched.

"Had to," the reporter breathed in a quiet gust, remorseful. "They told me they'd kill my family and then me. His too," he added, about his colleague. "I'm sorry."

Rachel wrapped a grip around Mike's trembling, goose-bump covered wrist, and beckoned Leroy with her free hand, pointing to the cellar exit. She glared at the writer.

"Don't say anything else," she threatened in a low snarl, and he nodded reluctantly, all listening to the footsteps upstairs, pausing as if confused at their lack of welcome.

Plucking Mike's sleeve to increase his pace and deter his internal, growing hysteria (she could tell by his dilating eyes, clenched teeth, and expanding chest, as if inhaling to scream), Rachel opened the inner doors with a soundless rush of telekinetic force, gesturing to the opened gate and the trio clambered outside, Leroy taking over the task of quelling any sound from escaping Mike. Rachel closed the storm cellar doors in total noiselessness, palms extended in front of her, keeping a wary eye on the windows. Creeping on tiptoe, like a mouse, Rachel stole from the basement entrance, steps lighter than air and presence entirely unnoticed, not breathing once in her fretful flight.

Inside the cellar, only to be heard by acute ears such as hers as the triumvirate successfully escaped, was the sudden noise of a gut-wrenching, terrible howl of agony.

* * *

"Close one," Mike babbled quickly, wiping his sweaty forehead and tapping his fingers on his bouncing knee, breathing erratically. Rachel scrutinized him in sympathy.

"It's okay, Mike," she consoled, reaching around in her seat and patting his knee to still its movement. "They're gone now. You can relax."

"But what if they saw us?"

"We would know," Leroy replied sternly, turning onto the highway into traffic in the direction of Lima. "Trust me, you would know if they saw us."

Mike seemed placated, and once forced by Rachel to drink some water, finally allowed his shoulders to sag lower and his lungs to calm, eyes still wide with delayed alarm.

"Should I slap him?" Rachel attempted to joke, falling short of exemplary humor. Nevertheless, Mike smiled a little, easing up at her try.

"I'm fine," he told them. "It's just a bit of a...shock, that's all. Aliens actually do exist, are here, and I only learned that about an hour ago, and said ones nearly caught us."

"Not to mention that what I suspect is your father's disappearance is directly linked to the Mogadorians," Leroy nodded. "I think he was the one suppling the intel."

"Me too," Mike sighed. "I almost don't want to know what he's been doing, but...at the same time..."

"He's been very helpful," Rachel offered, wincing at the blatant insensitivity of her statement, but Mike shrugged agreeably.

"Hope so. Anything that works. Heck, I helped out save the the planet...a little," Mike smiled, and Rachel laughed quietly.

"Yes, you did."

"Though it must be kept secret," Leroy couldn't help but contribute, firm, and Rachel rolled her eyes, irritable. "Especially from your club."

The way he emphasized _club _made Rachel know immediately that he meant Quinn in specifics, further souring her temper and making a sulk lift on her lips as she pressed her cheek to the cooling window. Quinn's naiveté only made Rachel want to tell her more, particularly after tonight's dramatics and tonight's unending aura of dread. How she feared about the ramifications of her hasty actions, the horrible terror that plagued her body and was unwilling to leave, the reluctant spark of hope she felt in her chest upon the realization of her fellow Loric's vicinities...Rachel rubbed her eyes, finding it more difficult than usual to erase the pipe dream of Quinn's awareness of her heritage.

Thinking longingly of the blonde, Rachel extracted her phone from her dress—still moderately clean looking, oddly enough—and typed a text, keeping the device on her lap.

The phone whirred instantly, lighting up, and Quinn's reply filled the pixelated screen, and unwitting to her, making her smile.

_Hey, back. How are you? How's Leroy?_

_We're both doing all right. We're on the way back to Lima._

_Tell Mike I say hi. Do you want to sneak over?_

_I'll be there after eleven,_ Rachel answered, closing the message menu and ignoring Leroy's questioning gaze. She whispered the salutation to Mike, who smiled tiredly.

Even if she couldn't reveal anything remotely significant about her life, spending time with Quinn would satisfy her. For now.

* * *

After dropping Mike off at his house—Leroy had ditched his own truck in Westerville, having made sure it was void of identification—Rachel and her Cêpan walked home.

"I'm going to Quinn's."

Leroy's eyebrows raised; it wasn't a request, it was a stubborn, bitter proclamation, and just nodded in response, bending to pet an enthusiastic Elphaba Brice on the ears.

The brunette hurried up the stairs, changing into sweats, brushing her hair and teeth, and pulling on a pair of comfortable running sneakers, before returning downstairs.

Leroy was silent as she walked to the front door, and when Rachel was in the threshold, ready to leave, he muttered an order about keeping Quinn uninformed. She didn't answer. Rachel broke into a sprint, dashing off into the night, zooming like a blurry, indistinct shape to the outside world. Letting the wind graze her face and diminish her nerves into simple tranquility. She reached Quinn's house in less than five minutes, a little surprised at her own speed, but shrugged it off and jogged to Quinn's backyard.

Leaping with the grace of a gymnast, Rachel scuttled up the tree like a spider and perched next to the house, extending her fist to rap on Quinn's window.

The glass shook in a loud rattle as the window slid open, displaying a torpid blonde with a sleepy smile on her lips, warming Rachel's heart from the recent, frigid distress it had suffered from. Balancing on the windowsill, Rachel climbed inside, producing a soft _thump_ on the rug, and was immediately engulfed in a drowsy hug from her girlfriend.

"Hi," Quinn greeted, arms tightening automatically as they teetered to and fro to the bed on their toes, both slightly unwilling to let go of the other.

"Hey," Rachel murmured, slipping out of her shoes and allowing Quinn to pull her down to settle on her side, to which Quinn's arms to drape snugly around her waist.

"I missed you," the blonde admitted sleepily in her ear, somehow making Rachel remember her exhaustion. Her eyes drifted shut, feeling Quinn's breath on her cheek.

"I missed you too," the Loric girl countered in quiet reproach, almost inaudibly. "Far too much."

Quinn's exhales were slower now, deeper, and Rachel allowed herself a moment of contemplation before she let unconsciousness drag her into dark, dreamless depths.


	14. Tangible

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Many thanks again for your lovely reviews, and thank you to those who recommended me on Tumblr. Enjoy!**

* * *

Rachel's eyes opened briefly, blearily, before she realized she was alone in Quinn's room, still burrowed under the covers. Her hand reached up in wary trepidation, fingers pressing gently to her temple in an attempt to soothe her growing, odd headache. Last night's events—nearly getting caught by the Mogadorians, learning vital information from the reporter, and...almost anticlimactically, winning Sectionals before the former two—didn't seem to weigh on her brain. It wasn't a Legacy-induced pain, either. She just felt like it was a tough, unyielding headache of unknown origin. Rachel's eyebrows rose; she didn't receive migraines. She just didn't, assuming it was only for humans.

She felt a strange sense of déjà vu at that moment, like she was missing something special when she was asleep. A forgotten task, misplaced item..._something_ was just off.

Could that be the source of her headache? The thing she was forgetting?

Not a second later, she wondered grumpily, uselessly, why these things appeared to strike whenever she didn't have time to deal nor patience with them.

Complaints of a being akin to a superhero, she guessed.

Her thoughts paused when the door swung open an inch, revealing Quinn, laden with bagels and juice, as the brunette girl's lips quirked into a grateful, pleased smile.

"Hey," the blonde addressed, wandering closer to the bed, pausing only to drop a perfunctory kiss on Rachel's mouth before settling to sit beside her, passing her a cup.

"Hi," Rachel replied. "Where are your parents?"

"Morning...tennis or golf or something with another couple," Quinn answered with a small shrug, nibbling on her bagel. "Old people things."

"They're not _that_ old," Rachel teased. Quinn laughed.

"Whenever you start playing golf, you're getting old. It's a sport that doesn't require _too_ much effort or exercise and it's an excuse for my mom to shop at Tommy Hilfiger."

Rachel snickered.

Producing a crinkled newspaper, Quinn wiggled backwards in her seat, leaning back so she could lay down against her pillows, tugging on Rachel's wrist. Rachel mimicked her, curling against the blonde's side and stealing the news section while Quinn examined the funnies, an adorable, amused look in her eyes when Rachel glanced at her. The brunette's gaze switched to the article in her hands, teeth grinding together when she read the headline, reporting the two mysterious murders of the writers in Westerville.

Rachel's grip nearly tore the paper into confetti as she gazed at the grainy, snapped photo of two identical stretchers and several policemen, weighed down by body bags.

The article went on to ponder why two largely unemployed journalists would be slaughtered so viciously, questioning the existence of more Westerville acts of aggression.

Beside one column, a picture of a complexly grooved, metallic sphere was shown, claiming to be found inside the esophagus of each reporter, assumedly the cause of death.

Rachel's breath caught. She'd heard—she had _heard—_stories from a disgusted Leroy about Mogadorian savagery, Mogadorian weaponry, and Mogadorian motives. Even in her memories, she could see how horribly her fellow Lorics were massacred, sometimes without the classic spears or fists. But this? This was a tool of cruelty, something Rachel had never seen from the invaders but could only deduce that it belonged to them, evidently the cause of the terrible scream she'd heard in her escape. The essay continued in gruesome detail about how the victims were mutilated from the inside out, and from what Rachel could tell, the weapon sliced them through them like butter.

Remorse and guilt stung a sore point in her heart. She'd commanded the conscious journalist to say nothing more, and left him—left a defenseless human alone—to _them._ Instead of acting to her pledge to save humanity from their clutches, she instigated his death because he had been told to be quiet and for losing his important Loric captive.

"Westerville," Quinn observed unexpectedly, reading over her shoulder and jolting Rachel from her musings, sounding upset. "That's where Leroy's aunt was, right?"

"We were okay, Quinn," Rachel lied. "That was on the other part of town and it says it happened past midnight. We were back in Lima before then."

"Oh. Well, I'm still glad you're safe and sound," the blonde replied, scanning the article further. "Wow. What Dexter-esque dude would even think of killing people like that?"

"Jack the Ripper."

"Jason Voorhees."

"Mike Myers."

"Freddie Kruger."

"Umm..." Quinn trailed off, before grinning sheepishly in defeat. "You win."

Rachel made quite a show of looking superior as Quinn chuckled, but the triumphant gleam in her eyes transferred to Quinn's as the blonde rolled over, pinning her down.

"Not so smug now, are you?"

"Nope," Rachel breathed.

Quinn's laughter rumbled against her chest. Hazel glinted above auburn as Quinn's reply followed, teasing. "Interesting. I'll file your reaction _whenever_ I do that for later."

Rachel's fingers tickled Quinn's forearms in retaliation, making the ex-cheerleader fidget and giggle, trying to remain still, but unhelpfully—in Rachel's opinion—squirmed.

Grinning at Rachel's attempted serenity, Quinn swooped in for a kiss (Rachel grousing when she sat up) and then suggested with a cheerful smile, "let's do something fun."

"What _kind_ of fun?"

* * *

"This is not...fun," Rachel grumbled, zipping up her coat, feeling wind nip at her ears. "Who goes out when it's this cold?"

Quinn's brilliant idea was not to stay in the house and cuddle and probably other nice, adventurous things. Instead, it was trekking outside on a hike in the woods.

In December.

_December_.

"I do," Quinn countered with a little laugh, snapping a picture of a frozen fern and peering at her girlfriend in open amusement. "Taking photos, to me, is like...a drug."

"Kick the habit," the brunette mumbled half-heartedly, and Quinn giggled.

"Sorry. Addicted. Past help. It's tragic, isn't it?"

"Remember my lost cause spiel? A lost cause can be fixed. _Meaning,_ that you could definitely be snuggled up and warm with me _inside,_ instead of out here in the cold."

"Special case," the blonde teased, tugging playfully on the strings of Rachel's borrowed cap and planting a kiss on the shorter girl's nose. "Unfixable."

Rachel sulked, ignoring Quinn's delighted tries to make her smile and shivering madly in her sneakers. Quinn's fingertips trailed under her jacket, bitingly cold on her skin.

"Hey," Rachel yelped in a high-pitched squeak. "Your hands are like ice!"

"Warm me up," Quinn said coyly. Rachel grinned, rising on her tiptoes to brush their lips together, as Quinn's arms wound sneakily around her waist, anchoring her there.

Rachel's skin felt as if it changed from stagnant to boiling in an instant, like it was provoked by the pressure of Quinn's touch. Quinn's caress and kiss was vastly different from anything she'd ever experienced in her life. She'd never felt so completely protected by someone's embrace—which was strange, in practice, because of the blonde's glaringly obvious fragility compared to Rachel's brute strength—and had never felt a sense of stability, as if she had lived in Lima forever in Quinn's secure arms all along.

She wanted _that_ history; a rewrite of her existence to place herself in humanity's antiquity, as just another mortal in Ohio without the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Quinn's kisses were roots. Roots she wanted but could only study in wistful longing, unable to grasp wholly because she was too powerful—too unprecedented—to contain.

Quinn leaned back slightly, a bit breathless, to place a lingering kiss on Rachel's cheek, breathing a contented sigh in her ear, and Rachel held her tighter.

"I'm going to take more pictures," Quinn began, playing with Rachel's hat again, "while _you_ whip that cute pout off your face, because it's hard to look at you sometimes."

Rachel complied, making the other girl beam automatically.

"Then, we're going to walk back home and get some hot chocolate and pretend to my parents that you didn't stay over last night. Deal?"

"But—"

Quinn scampered off without waiting for a reply and Rachel sighed, not unhappily, and glanced intently at the sky as the first snow of winter commenced, descending slowly.

Extraordinary, precise eyes examining the differing, partially frozen designs of the floating snowflakes, the brunette didn't first notice the rapid clicking of a camera.

"You look pretty," Quinn called from across the clearing, and Rachel ignored her reflexive, panicked wince—no pictures, no trace pedagogy since she was young—and smiled.

"I'm admiring the view from here, as well," she replied sincerely, and Quinn blushed.

In a half-mollified, half-embarrassed state of geniality as she checked her camera, Quinn didn't notice the large log until she tripped over it sideways, leg twisting after her.

"Shit!" Quinn screeched, camera tumbling headlong into the undergrowth and out of sight as she cradled her ankle closer to her body, teeth gritting together in sharp pain.

Rachel was already at her side, experimentally pressing the slightest touch to the swelling, and drew back when Quinn flinched, shrinking a little.

"Can you walk?"

Rachel's hard grip steadied Quinn's elbow as the blonde wobbled to her feet, attempting to stand on her own, only to teeter to her left and be held up again by Rachel.

"Nope, nope, can't walk," Quinn squeaked. "Ouch-oww-ouch."

"Okay," Rachel decided, feeling unexpectedly delighted when this turn of events. She could show off to Quinn without being too obvious. "Guess I'll have to carry you—"

"_Carry me_?" Quinn interrupted shrilly, shaking her head as Rachel watched her cheeks redden. "No. No. I'm bigger than you, and second, that would look totally weird."

"Quinn, do you want to stay alone in the woods while it's snowing with a probably sprained ankle?"

"No," the blonde grumbled, a second too late.

"Great," Rachel smiled sweetly. "You have a few options. Fireman's lift, piggyback, or, my personal favorite, Lois Lane to my Supergirl. Choose carefully."

Quinn's eyebrows furrowed in reluctant thought, struggling to pick, before mumbling about a piggyback and climbing lethargically onto Rachel's back, grimacing a bit.

"This is stupid," she muttered gruffly, as Rachel—unbeknownst to the blonde—snatched the camera in a quick wrest of telekinesis before passing it to an oblivious Quinn.

"You're just mad you tripped," Rachel sang, and Quinn flicked her ear as payback. Quinn's chin pressed on Rachel's shoulder, arms dangling on either side of Rachel's neck.

"How are you even holding me up? You're like, tiny."

"Secret training in the Himalayas, remember? I have expertly honed my strength to rival one of the best strongman in a circus."

"Oh, right. You're a real ninja. I forgot."

"Ninja, no. Superhero, yes. Mike is the ninja, not me."

Rachel didn't need to turn around to know that Quinn was rolling her eyes.

"You're such a nerd."

"I'm your nerd, Quinn. Duh."

Quinn cooed teasingly at Rachel's sappy tone, tilting her head slightly to kiss what she could reach of Rachel's cheek. "Aww...how sweet."

"I know."

"Alright, Lothario, there's my house," Quinn announced, smiling, as Rachel spied the yard and white frame in the distance. "I think my mom has a wrap to hold my ankle."

* * *

After leaving Quinn safely in the hands of a grateful Judy and appreciative Russell, back at home—both thanking her profusely, Russell clapping her on the back at one point to Quinn's upmost humiliation and yelled frustrations to her highly amused father—Rachel had walked to her own house, hands tucked in her pockets, nose dipped to dodge the fierce cold. Elphaba Brice loped out to meet her, tail wagging excitedly as the canine circled around Rachel, before the brunette wandered inside, the dog at her heels.

Her eyebrow raised at what looked to be the most awkward, silent company she'd ever witnessed or would ever witness.

Mike sat on the armchair, elbows on his knees and eyes on the floor, an untouched soda beside him, while Leroy sat on the couch, gaze fixed blankly on the television.

"Um, hey."

"Rachel," Mike smiled, relieved. He sat up in his seat. "What's up?"

"Nothing...much. What are you...doing here?" Rachel asked uncomfortably, shifting her weight from foot to foot as Elphaba nudged her leg, as if pushing her closer to Mike.

Leroy's pointed, obvious silence didn't help the situation at all—he simply looked annoyed, like Mike's knowledge was an irritant and a hindrance instead of an aid.

"Your d—Leroy suggested that I come over here to talk about you guys. He said it was better to know the whole story than just...fragments of it."

"Did he?" Rachel queried of her Cêpan, who sighed quietly.

"I did," Leroy admitted sourly. "He can't be ignorant if he's been informed a little and been in dangerous circumstances."

Rachel found a seat on the floor, gently pushing Elphaba Brice's enthusiastic, slobbery mouth from her vicinity and peering up at Leroy, who gestured for her to start.

"Right...okay," Rachel began, uneasy. Mike smiled encouragingly. "I've just...never believed I'd be allowed to tell you this...anything remotely honest about me."

"Why don't you start with...uh, Lorien? That's the planet, right? Go into detail—I already know the basics."

"Yes," Rachel acquiesced, curling her knees closer to her chest. "So, our planet was actually celebrating...something, a certain holiday that night—I don't remember it clearly—and then, there was an interruption during the fireworks," she continued softly, expression hardening. Elphaba growled. "The Mogadorians had staged a surprise invasion, and none of us had time to prepare. The adults with special abilities, called the Garde, jumped to defend everyone else while the Cêpan tried to protect the children."

"It didn't work," she supplied.

Mike watched Rachel's eyes flash with anger, and so suddenly he nearly missed it: the shortest glint of sapphire in her palms in response to her ire before it swiftly vanished.

Her hands flexed briefly, as if itching to act in absolute revenge, but they stilled and remained motionless in her lap.

"They descended before anyone could react quickly enough. Everyone was slaughtered. The article on the reporters was trifle compared to what our Lorics went through."

"Mogadorians," Leroy piped up stonily, "don't have a shred of mercy in the place were a heart should be."

"Like dementors?" Mike offered tentatively, and a ghost of a smile could be seen on Rachel's mouth before it dulled. Leroy also looked fleetingly amused with the thought.

"Only they aren't as easily tricked as Rowling's fictional antagonists. Master strategists, soldiers, and engineers, Mogadorians are the antithesis to what Leroy and I are."

Mike nodded absently, reclining backwards on his chair as he continued to listen closely, gazing at his best friend with undivided, rapt attention.

"Anyway, my grandfather...he was smarter than most. He immediately urged who was around him that we should go to the museum, where an outdated shuttle was docked in the hangar," Rachel explained. "I don't remember the rest exactly—not _yet_—but I remember my grandmother crying as we left. The ship only had time to carry nine children and their nine guardians, and the necessary supplies to escape. The soldiers were literally at our heels...but we alone managed to leave Lorien, unharmed."

"And everyone else...died," Mike added awkwardly, and Leroy nodded grimly.

"We stayed in orbit around Lorien for a single week, and the Mogadorians settled in, reaped the temporary reward, and sped up the planet's end unknowingly."

"Mogadorians don't understand the idea of environment conservation," Rachel tacked on with a small sigh. "That's why they attacked. And that's why they want Earth."

"Why would they want to kill you?" Mike queried.

"Rachel and the other six are the only obstacles strong enough to stay in their way," Leroy said. "If they're murdered, the Mogadorians are free to conquer this planet."

"Like General Zod."

"Yes, Mike. Exactly like General Zod."

Mike whistled lowly.

Rachel smiled crookedly. "Now you know why I didn't admit to lying to you. I hope it didn't offend you, but I think I was allowed to do so with a situation such as this."

"Completely okay," Mike insisted truthfully, cracking open his can of Sprite. "Chloe and Pete forgave Clark on _Smallville_, so...it's almost the same idea."

Rachel nodded absentmindedly, while Leroy stood up to find the Chest, ambling out of the room.

"So," Mike drawled expectantly, "what powers do you have? Besides the light-up trick and TK? Both which are very cool, by the way."

"Super-strength, enhanced speed and endurance...uh, I don't get human diseases and I can't get drunk on your alcohol," Rachel elaborated. "And my third Legacy."

"Legacy?"

"That's what we call our powers. Every Garde member matures and gets three Legacies—telekinesis for everyone, Lumen (the light-up thing), and a third one."

"What is it?"

"I don't know yet. It could be anything. Camouflage, breathing underwater, teleportation, telepathy...I haven't gotten it so far. There's a lot of possibilities."

Mike pretended to stroke an invisible goatee, considering it seriously.

"Interesting."

Rachel's lips quirked up, entertained, as she regarded him, head tilted to the side in scrutiny.

"I'm betting on breathing underwater. You look like a swimmer...ish," the dancer declared. "Imagine you on the team at school? Awards and trophies galore, my friend."

"That would make Figgins happy," Rachel countered, like she resented the thought. "No way."

"No way," Mike agreed.

Leroy's returning presence ceased further conversation, arms full with the ancient Chest. Extending her hand into the air, Rachel pressed her fingertips to the surface as Leroy did the same, and Mike watched in plain amazement as the lock snapped open on the spot, before Leroy turned, hiding the contents from them both. Rachel sulked.

"He always does that," she complained under her breath. Mike laughed.

"For your own good," Leroy told her sternly, as if the argument was long-finished—earning an irritable eye roll—and passed Rachel the blue crystal resembling a stalagmite.

Rachel's grip curled around the surface, making her eyes glaze over and a quick gasp to escape her lips, before she became entirely immobile and eerily silent.

"What's wrong with her?" Mike squeaked in alarm, rising from his seat to check on Rachel's apparent catatonia. Leroy barely blinked as he sat down on the couch again.

"Vision. Might as well wait it out. She's fine. Occasionally we initiate this for her to become more education in Loric culture and memories."

"Oh."

* * *

_Rachel's head swam, breaths coming desperately as she struggled to find stability on what resembled ground at the moment. Her feet found purchase on land, fog surrounding her body as she attempted to see where and when she was. Being unable to find her way was disconcerting, and stranger still, was not part of her fellow Loric's mind. She was a separate being, similar to when she would see a previous life. But this was different—she was alone and unguided in the past, no Mogadorians in sight. _

_The fog seemed to lift, although a bitter cold descended upon her instead, creating goosebumps on Rachel's flesh._

_The brunette's headache reappeared—she frowned sourly, annoyed with such a common occurrence as of late—as if accompanying the vision itself purposely._

_Her gaze took in a rainy, dreary landscape, and under her sneakers, a dirt road stretching into a vast row of distant mountains._

_Her eyebrows drew together in confusion. This didn't look anything she'd seen in One's memory of Malaysia. Where was he? Shouldn't she see him, Isaac, instead?_

_She stepped forward, as if to search for One and continue hesitantly along the road, but shivered at the overwhelming sense of dizziness, anchoring her in place._

_Rachel couldn't move any farther, and only managed to stare at a glimpse of a street sign, littered with directions she recognized to be Spanish, before the image faded._

* * *

Rachel rubbed her forehead, setting down the crystal on the coffee table with a queasy expression and a protesting stomach, closing her eyes to ward off the vertigo spell.

"Yuck," she mumbled weakly. "Head rush."

"What did you see?" Mike and Leroy asked together.

"I didn't see Number One, like I expected to with the order of people before myself. I saw a road...thing, and a sign in Spanish."

"Spanish," Leroy repeated, before the realization dawned on him. He frowned. "Number Seven—the one being trailed in Spain, correct?"

"Yeah...from the journalist's notes," Rachel sighed, finding a pillow and laying her head on it. Mike patted her leg from his seat. "That shouldn't happen; Seven's alive."

"That's true," Leroy mused, concerned. "Have you seen him or her yet?"

"No," Rachel admitted ruefully. "But last night, and today, with that vision, I've gotten terrible headaches."

"Maybe because Seven isn't dead and isn't passing his or her thoughts onto you," the Cêpan considered. "Maybe it's painful to 'eavesdrop' because they're conscious?"

"I don't know," Rachel murmured tiredly. "And I don't really care."

Leroy rolled his eyes.

"Well," Mike announced brightly, "at least we're all alive."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Rachel grumbled. Leroy raised an eyebrow in inquiry, agreeing with her.

"I mean...we didn't—last night...the Mogs," Mike mumbled, embarrassed. "Trying to lighten the...nevermind."

"One thing you need to learn, Mike," Leroy advised, compiling the Chest and materials together, closing the box with a dull snap, "is that Rachel and I are rarely optimistic."

Mike winced.

* * *

"Now that we're all here," Mr. Schue proclaimed, eagerly, when the club was assembled in the choir room the following Monday, "we can start talking about Regionals."

"Gross," Brittany told everyone sagely, disgruntled.

"I'm with Britts," Santana muttered. "We literally just finished Sectionals, Mr. Schue. Is this really necessary? Don't get a hiatus or something?"

"Is winning necessary?" Mr. Schue asked rhetorically, and before anyone could reply with a counterargument, insisted loudly, "yes."

Puck murmured something to Matt about a spot on Charlie Sheen impression. Matt nodded darkly in agreement, both boys looking disapprovingly at Mr. Schuester.

"The primary group we're facing is Vocal Adrenaline," Mr. Schue elaborated. "The choir we saw before, remember?"

"Oh, right," Kurt piped up. "The club we're going to lose to."

"With that attitude, maybe," Mr. Schue remarked immediately. "We can't give up now, guys. So, this brings me to my point. I want three of you to go on a recon trip."

"Reconnaissance," Quinn and Mike explained in unison, and stopped speaking to look at each other in leery suspicion. Rachel hid a smile.

"You both play Call of Duty," the brunette pointed out in a whisper, and her girlfriend and her best friend relaxed, before Mike scribbled his username and gave it to Quinn.

Rachel silently laughed at Quinn's high-five to Mike, as the ex-football player began to discuss apparently important kill-death ratios, only to be interrupted by Mr. Schue.

"Quinn, Mike!" Mr. Schue exclaimed, delighted, misinterpreting their high-fives for hand raises. "Thanks for volunteering."

"What?"

"We didn't—"

"You two and...Mercedes! You two and Mercedes will drive to Akron and sneak into Carmel High," the director instructed. "Take a quick peek at their regime and style."

"That's unethical," Kurt announced. "But I like it."

"It's also illegal," Rachel added, disapproval apparent in her tone. "Are you willing to take that risk, Mr. Schue?"

"Yes."

Quinn scoffed, Mike sighed, and Mercedes shrugged, the trio filing out of the room—not without a goodbye kiss from Quinn to Rachel, making Santana sneer and Puck grin—to Quinn's car. Rachel brooded in silence, sometimes nodding along to Mr. Schue's increasingly boring monologue about his duet assignment, barely paying attention at all.

"...and that's why you and Rachel should work together."

"Are you serious?" Finn demanded. "I know I'm not allowed to say anything bad and I'm on probation in this group, but I have to sing with her?"

Rachel's headache—the stupid fucker—resurfaced, instigating pressure on her temple. Finn seemed to drag it from the depths of her brain. Fantastic, really.

"I agree," Rachel conceded, nastily. "I can't work with someone who bullied me on a daily basis."

"She _pranked_ me."

"He and his friends _jumped_ me."

"I wasn't there!"

"You _ordered_ it!"

"You're dating Quinn! She was _my_ girlfriend first!"

"Yes, that's correct, and 'was' being the operative word," Rachel sneered. "Get over it. God, you're like a child sometimes. How did you even get into high school?"

"How did you even get Quinn?" Finn countered rudely. "I don't see anything good about you. What's the point?"

"Maybe you can ask her," Rachel jeered, covering an unhappy grimace at the truth of his statement. "Or I can, next time I stay over _alone_ with her in her house."

Finn's cheeks turned an ugly shade of puce in obvious jealousy as Mr. Schue hastily switched Puck to be Rachel's partner, instead sending Finn to work with Tina.

Puck plopped down to sit next to Rachel, offering a friendly smile instead of his customary smirk, slinging an arm across the back of her chair.

"Hey."

"Noah."

"How's your dad doing?" He asked. "Y'know, with the croaked aunt and all."

"Fine, we're both okay, I guess," Rachel lied. "So...what do you want to sing together?"

"Dunno," he answered. "Maybe we can go to the music store later—"

"Would it be a problem if I went alone?" Rachel asked. "I want to clear my head a little. Arguing with Finn is tiring and I'd probably snap at you eventually."

"Don't I know it," Puck nodded. "Sure. Text me if you come up with anything good, Rach."

* * *

Finding directions to Lima's only music store was easy, and with a few texts from Quinn, found her way into the shop without difficulty, practically skipping to—at Noah's belated request by voicemail, her number retrieved from Mike—the classic rock section. Steering around an elderly couple and then a few random customers, Rachel nearly flew to a shelf, scoping out a few dusty records curiously, debating whether to call Noah and ask for his opinion. Her examination a Pink Floyd cover did not go unnoticed.

"You don't strike me as the type to sing that song."

Rolling her eyes, Rachel pivoted, momentarily surprised to see the same boy she bumped into at Sectionals smiling back at her, flashing his most flawless, persuasive grin.

"Project," she offered cryptically, returning her gaze to the shelf. The boy laughed quietly, and Rachel sensed his attempt to appear elusive.

"To me, you're more of a Streisand type."

Rachel's ears perked up, slightly, before she allowed an expressionless facade to settle once more on her features. "Oh. Well, I do enjoy her work. Good guess."

"I saw you at Sectionals," the boy added, and when Rachel turned in controlled surprise, deciding to shake his hand out of politeness, he lifted her hand to his lips to kiss it.

"I'm Jesse St. James," the boy declared with a pompous air about himself—she could only assume it to be somewhat seductively, to the trained eye—and released her.

"Rachel Berry," she replied, disinterested again already, to her own amusement. Really, her thoughts, in regards to _seduction_, strayed helplessly to a specific, lovely blonde.

"I know," Jesse answered lightly, examining a record with practiced nonchalance, as if gracing her with his presence simply demanded his flighty attention. "Everyone does."

"Everyone?" She asked quickly, too quickly, but Jesse didn't appear to notice the note of concern in her tone, and just flashed another spectacular smile.

"Everyone on Ohio's show choir network," he explained. "Your performance crashed the system."

"Crashed?"

"Well, everyone watching was blown away by your talent, obviously," Jesse continued, crossing his arms and eyeing her in something similar to subdued admiration. "But the funny thing is, when anyone tried to research you, get details about McKinley High's dark horse, female lead, no one could find a single scrap about who you really are."

"Oh," she murmured, alarm and paranoia sparking in her veins. People were searching the Internet for her? Leroy would have an ulcer if he heard about that one.

"Rachel Berry searches," Jesse paused, dramatically, "made every single computer that tried, crash. Viruses, pop-ups, malware...the whole shebang. And yet, here you are."

"Here I am," Rachel amended nervously.

"Here's my idea," Jesse declared, looking at her, "there is a reason that you're not on the Internet, and why your name specifically ruined hundreds of personal computers."

"I bet," Rachel volunteered weakly, blind panic surging behind her polite serenity, making her heart gallop into a frenzied sprint. Lima would probably give her a heart attack.

"And I think I know why it happened."

Jesse didn't go on, pointedly, and just looked at her, watching her sweat, eyes narrowed as if daring her to confess her secret, ready to wait patiently until she did.

Rachel gnawed her lip in complete terror. Oh, shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

How did he discover Leroy's little trick of removing mentions of her name, picture, and records from online sources with a few typed keys on his Loric enhanced laptops?

Did Jesse know? Who _was_ this guy? How did he even know about her? Did he know about the Mogadorians? Leroy? Lorien? The reporters? What about—

"The reason you're not accessible to anyone on the network," Jesse concluded meaningfully, at last, as Rachel waited with bated breath, "is actually..."

"I'm a mutant," she blurted out, trying to come up with a passible joke, the very first thing that came to mind. Jesse chuckled.

"No, silly. The reason you're not able to be found is because New Directions obviously has a skilled hacker on their hands. Is that right?"

Rachel's brain slowed, taking in each word slowly before she burst out: "That's right!"

"I knew it!" Jesse exclaimed in triumph, before regaining his composure. "They kept a pretty little thing like you under wraps on purpose, so we would underestimate you."

"You caught us," Rachel shot back in feigned apology, pure relief making her knees weak. She was safe. No one had knowledge of her or her abilities. "Sorry."

"It's fine, they weren't even my computers," Jesse smirked, leaning towards her. "Anyway, your confession brings me to my next idea."

"Um, well—"

"Since New Directions is going to lose at Regionals with or without you, I'd like to extend an invitation to Ohio's most prestigious show choir, Vocal Adrenaline."

Rachel's jaw dropped in a combination of tardy consolation, suppressed annoyance, and bewildered shock, and was entirely unable to reply.

Mind whirling in a maelstrom at not getting found out, irritation at Jesse's presence, and surprise at his audacity to invite her to a rival club, she simply stared at him.

Jesse's eyes danced with jaunty pride, and he leaned closer, placing a light kiss on her cheek, making her both incensed that he would dare and wistful that it wasn't Quinn.

(She really, really needed to get a handle on her hormones and attachment to Quinn. This was not the time, and she could see herself resembling a puppy. Not flattering.)

"Think about it," the soloist asserted, pleased, as she blinked, assuming wrongly of her reaction and placing a scribbled phone number in her palm, curling it closed.

Rachel could only watch, frozen in place, as the boy left the store with a skip in his step, humming to himself, and managed to extract her own phone to text Quinn.

_Quinn, call an emergency glee meeting, please? We have a slight problem..._


	15. Verisimilitude

**Title:** Four

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Sorry for the wait! School's ending soon, so updates will be closer together. Thanks again for reading!**

* * *

"A slight problem," Quinn repeated grumpily, wobbling a little as she found a seat on the couch. "Explain yourself, please."

Receiving Rachel's text, Quinn, Mercedes, and Mike had traipsed back from Akron, vehemently dumbstruck at Vocal Adrenaline's performance and swearing profusely that New Directions needed to adopt a tighter practice schedule or be obliterated at Regionals. Mr. Schue simply nodded and listened to their other observations without a word. Convened once again, this time in Quinn's living room, sans their teacher, the glee club sat in silence as Rachel brandished the note scrawled with Jesse's phone number, looking indignant.

"Ladies and gentleman," the brunette announced firmly, "we are now involved in a cold war."

"It is cold outside," Brittany agreed, shivering for effect. "When does the war get warmer?"

"She doesn't mean cold literally, Britt."

"Oh."

Rachel ignored them. "Our competition has began to what I presume to be an red herring before a huge, terrible onslaught."

"I don't get it," Finn admitted, before realizing too late that he'd conversed with Rachel and frowned, choosing not to speak again.

"You aren't alone," Puck grumbled. "Rachel, what's your point?"

Rachel handed him the note, and Puck examined it fleetingly before promptly bursting into laughter.

"Seriously? Rachel, a dude gave you his number! This isn't warfare, it's asking for a date!"

"What?" Quinn yelped.

"Who would do that?" Finn asked, before agreeably quelling under Mike's stern glare, Santana's pointed cough and flex of her fingers, and Quinn's sneer and blazing eyes. "I mean...nothing. Nevermind."

"How does you getting some guy's digits relate to Vocal Adrenaline?" Mike inquired, studying the neat handwriting over Puck's shoulder.

Rachel huffed. "Fellow glee-clubbers, this boy is the very beginning of our sabotage and defeat at Regionals."

"How?" Several voices chorused loudly in a swarm of impatience at her diatribe.

"Jesse St. James is the lead singer of Vocal Adrenaline," the Loric teenager enunciated, "and he invited me to join their choir."

"What?" Kurt demanded.

"They're poaching you?" Santana questioned, before hurriedly explaining to Brittany that no, Rachel was not being hunted like animals in Africa. Rachel privately disagreed. Although, she couldn't exactly tell anyone that her death was just about as coveted as elephant tusks.

"Yes. Apparently, after my solo at Sectionals, the show choir community tried to search for records of me, and each computer crashed."

"They _all_ crashed?"

"What the hell?"

Rachel shrugged helplessly. "Investigating my name proved fruitless and in the end, Jesse concluded—"

"Ooh, Jesse," Quinn mumbled irritably, jealously at the revelation of a competing suitor irked like clockwork.

"—that I either must be incredibly important to this group and something not to be underestimated (which he now knows) and that one of you hacked their computers to enforce that."

Artie shook his head. "That's not our style. I certainly didn't—did anyone else try it?"

Rachel nodded when no one answered, as if acquiescing with that, but already knowing of the real answer.

"So what do we do?" Mercedes asked. "Rachel's our last member and they think they can take her from us without breaking a sweat."

"I vote pranks," Santana piped up with a devilish smile. "Anyone up for it? I have fantastic ideas."

Finn scowled.

"We should arrange a rendezvous," Kurt suggested doggedly, stroking his chin. "Show them that they can't do something like this."

"I have his phone number," Rachel reminded them. "What's the plan?"

Kurt's eyes gleamed with a devious, predatory glint.

"Trust me, ladies and gentlemen, I know what I'm doing. Rachel, call Jesse. We're organizing a public powwow, _West Side Story _style."

* * *

"You look ridiculous, Quinn," Rachel sighed, shifting in her seat. Quinn cleared her throat, adjusting her sunglasses.

"I need to look professional and intimidating. He needs to be scared."

"One, you're wearing sunglasses inside, and second, it's December, further proving they are both ineffectual and ludicrous."

"Rachel," Quinn grumbled, "every single meet-up between enemies on no man's land has each side looking badass. I had to do this."

Rachel rolled her eyes. "We're in a subpar restaurant named after an appetizer with our friends strategically hidden around us. _Really_?"

Quinn pouted.

To their left, Santana was smirking and murmuring something inappropriate to a Brittany, with Mike the unfortunate, uncomfortable third wheel at their table. Matt, Puck, Artie, and Finn sat at another table. Kurt, Tina, and Mercedes at one the far right, chatting quietly. New Directions weren't the only customers nor teenagers in the place, but all insisted on waiting patiently to eavesdrop on the conference. Jesse, however, was unknowing, simply believing a perky Rachel on the phone that this was a first date, not a tense colloquy. Rachel straightened up when Jesse finally arrived, although he was not alone; a few boys and several girls flanked him, finding a table.

The brunette listened to the ephemeral grinding of Quinn's teeth as the rival soloist sat down, peering at the blonde curiously.

"Rachel, nice to see you again," Jesse remarked, sending the Loric girl a dazzling smile. "Who's your friend?"

Quinn stiffened, lips pursing and she pushed her sunglasses higher up on her nose, now feeling foolish at the decision to wear them.

"Actually, Jesse," Rachel answered, showing him a disarming, aloof flash of her perfect teeth, "this is my girlfriend, Quinn."

Quinn brightened noticeably as Jesse's smile dimmed a fraction.

"Oh."

"Yes. And I'm sorry to say that this is not a date, nor is it something you will desire to hear."

The boy inclined his head, as if waiting for her to elaborate, but his shoulders remained still, like he wasn't deterred, and simply listening.

"I've considered your offer, but it was no question that I would stay loyal to my choir. I will not be jumping ship," Rachel explained.

"That's a pity," Jesse commented airily. "Your voice could've contributed to yet another Nationals title for Carmel High."

"We aren't even past Regionals, though," Quinn blurted out. Jesse smiled, certainly condescending.

"Of course not, Quinn. But Vocal Adrenaline is the obvious victor in any competition. I just wanted to allow Rachel a shot at the glory."

"New Directions might win," Quinn snapped. Jesse's expression didn't waver an inch.

"Might, being the _inoperative_ word. You have a failed Broadway hopeful as a director and a bunch of talentless losers, except Rachel."

"We might not have your talent but we've got the heart," the blonde proclaimed, and chuckles from Vocal Adrenaline could be heard.

Jesse shrugged, straightening his lapels of his Vocal Adrenaline jacket. "Anyway, Rachel, thank you for thinking about your options."

Rachel nodded.

Jesse stood up, and when he was not but a foot from the table, pivoted on his heel and glanced to Rachel again with a strange look.

"It's a shame I couldn't persuade you, Rachel. I would've filled out your transfer papers for you, but I couldn't find any records to copy."

Rachel met his gaze with a carefully composed expression, but tightened her grip on the table, eyes betraying her anxiety.

Electronic records of her were easy to erase, but the lack of a birth certificate and previous school grades? Fishy, very fishy.

Her girlfriend looked back and forth between them when Rachel didn't answer, confused.

"Quinn, will you excuse us for a minute?"

"What?" Quinn asked, eyebrows furrowing suspiciously. "Why?"

"I'd like to speak to Jesse alone."

"No way."

"I'll tell you later, Quinn. Please."

Quinn's eyes looked torn between hot anger and resigned dejection, but she just sighed and slid out of the booth without argument.

Rachel's insides twisted with guilt as Jesse reclaimed his seat, a heaviness settling on her heart just as her rival settled across from her.

This lie seemed worse than the others—Quinn could hear a reason for concern but Rachel had shooed her away without any details.

How many more could she sell before Quinn lost her patience?

Before Quinn saw sense and noted how bland it must be, dating someone who is about as informative as a brick wall?

"I haven't told my teammates," he began, but he hadn't lost the tone of insincerity in his voice. "But no records is very odd, isn't it?"

"Yes," Rachel admitted, half-listening to him. She focused on Quinn's quiet, apathetic explanation to Mike, Santana, and Brittany, saying that Jesse wanted to speak with Rachel by herself, creating some reason as she studied a menu with a stoic, almost cold expression.

"Are you an illegal alien?" Jesse questioned, eyes dancing with mischief, like it was all a big game. Rachel ground her teeth.

"No," she lied.

"Are you a terrorist?"

"No," she insisted irritably, fed up with his teasing already.

Jesse smirked. "Then why are you completely off the face of the Earth except in person? It doesn't make a lick of sense to me."

"My dad was in the CIA," the brunette tried half-heartedly, uselessly. Jesse's smirk widened, and Rachel averted her gaze.

"Whatever you're doing here is your business," the boy shrugged, playing idly with a knife. "Although, it does raise a dilemma..."

"Dilemma?" Rachel repeated, watching as Jesse spun the utensil, grazing the serrated edge with his fingertips. "What dilemma?"

"As a proper, faithful citizen to the United States, I should call the cops and report you, but I've decided that I won't. For a price."

"A price?" Rachel inquired nervously. He patted her hand in a patronizing manner, but the action only made her mind whir with terror.

"I like you, Rachel. You have an extremely magnificent voice—I can see a faint but proud glimmer of Barbra in you. Most people would be jealous of the opportunities you could have, but I digress. Anyway, you were the one who won Sectionals for your team, did you not?"

"I guess," she murmured, panicky.

"Don't be modest. Of course you did. My point is, who knows what you could whip up for Regionals? You'd totally bring down the house."

"So?"

Jesse placed the knife on the table in its previous position, before folding his arms across his chest. "So...I don't want you at Regionals."

Rachel's mouth dropped open. "But...I'm the necessary member for New Directions. They need me there or else they can't compete."

"That you are, and that they do," he acquiesced. "And you're the wild card that will steal Vocal Adrenaline's otherwise definite victory."

"What are you getting at?" Rachel demanded in an apprehensive hiss, temporarily suppressing her unease to convey her impatience.

"If the first place trophy is placed in that boy in the wheelchair's lap...Artie, was it? If the trophy is handed to _Artie_ to hold once again, just like the astounding accomplishment at Sectionals, I'll be on the phone with the FBI faster than you can say 'Nationals'," Jesse said.

Rachel stared at him in utter shock as he stood up, fixing his jacket lapels again with a pompous quirk of his lips and amused sigh.

His posture and satisfied air appeared to manifest, at least in Rachel's mind, a decisive atmosphere akin to a player earning a checkmate.

"It's a fair deal," he added lowly, mindful of the volume of his tone. "You have your illegal secret, whatever that is, and I get my prize."

The brunette watched her newest rival leave the restaurant, his counterparts trailing after him with smug claps to his shoulders.

Kurt appeared at Rachel's table as she blinked, anger replacing her fear. "Well? What did he say?"

"He just...thanked me for considering the offer," Rachel replied shortly, dismissively, and stood up. "And that he'd...see me at Regionals."

She left Kurt standing in disappointed irritation and walked outside into the cold air, ignoring the buzzing of her cell phone in her pocket.

* * *

Couldn't she just be left alone, for once?

Why did she become a target to be exploited and threatened? How did joining a _show_ _choir_ get her in this mess?

More importantly, how did Lima become a place of distress, where she simply couldn't relax and had to be on her toes more than ever?

She'd been on the run and marked to die for four years now, and suddenly, the noose seemed tighter with each passing day.

To Rachel, it was like glancing over her shoulder even when she was amongst those she felt mildly comfortable with, unable to feel safe.

And now, she'd wormed her way into New Directions, only to be blackmailed into losing the goal they'd earnestly wanted since last year.

Could she really fuck up her life any more? Let Leroy (not that she'd tell him about this calamity) down for the umpteenth time?

Rachel's fingers clenched tighter around the metal frame of Quinn's old camera—she carried it constantly in her backpack, like a life-preserver—as she felt her phone vibrate for what seemed to be the hundredth time in less than an hour, as she sat forlornly and silently in the music store. Angling the device in her palm as she sat on the floor in the blues section (nobody frequented this annex and it fitted her current mood), Rachel peered at the digitized version of her best friend's name, the second of two that alternated in trying to call her.

_Mike. Mike. Mike._

Feeling a sigh escape her mouth, she pressed TALK and lifted it to her ear, hearing wind whooshing in her ear and Mike's loud greeting.

"Where the hell are you?"

"Why?" She mumbled. "Isn't Quinn mad at me or something?"

"She wanted to find you," Mike answered, annoyed. "Then you walked out of Breadstix and we've been trying to find you since then."

"What is she saying?"

Mike sighed heavily, and Rachel dimly recognized the words "answers" and "soon" before she tuned back in with a start.

"What?"

"She wants answers," Mike repeated slowly. "She told me that...well, she would tell you first, but since you're MIA...she needs to know."

"Know what?" Rachel asked dully, already suspecting the forthcoming, unfortunate response. Mike's words were careful and deliberate.

"She wants to know about you. All about you. Quinn would rather tell you, but she told me she can't handle the lies anymore."

"I always lie," Rachel reminded him. "I have to, because Leroy will make us move and she could be in danger from the Mogadorians."

"Rachel, I understand. I've read all those circumstances before...not that those really matter now, but...maybe you could—?"

"I can't."

"Then you lose Quinn," Mike replied shortly, uncaring of his rudeness. "I can't help you. It's your decision. Ignore Leroy and choose."

Rachel's grasp on the phone loosened as the call ended. She dragged her free hand through her hair in frustration, stowing her phone.

She just should ignore Mike. Mike was a human, a well-informed one, but a human at that. So what if he'd read tons of comic books about superheroes confessing their secrets to their lovers? That was fiction. That had writers who could find loopholes, ones who could write alternate endings and bring back the deceased, who were able to fix their old mistakes with the next issue. Mike didn't comprehend that this was real. Mogadorians weren't bumbling villains with an affinity to get distracted and caught up in their monologues. They were cruel, they were brutal, and they wouldn't hesitate to snap Quinn's delicate neck faster than the helpless blonde would be able to feel.

Rachel shuddered violently at the thought, hands twitching in a phantom, automatic urge to protect her girlfriend until she calmed down.

_Her_ _girlfriend_.

She couldn't refer to Quinn like that for much longer. Today's instance was the fork in the road, the end of ignorance and the probable conclusion of her first relationship. Quinn had to know, and yes, if Rachel was human with a few dark secrets under her belt, she would be singing like a canary and pleading the blonde to not break up with her because keeping knowledge from Quinn would taint what should be a normally healthy coupling until she could find a new solution and new excuses to validate her lies. But there was only one human in this pair and Rachel couldn't—_wouldn't_—let Quinn fall into danger because of her recent enlightenment of Rachel's heritage.

Her adamance couldn't last. It was futile, really, to deny Quinn something for so long...almost unnatural to keep up the silly deception.

Quinn wasn't pleased with her, and it made Rachel's heart strain and twist in the instinctive habit to keep Quinn happy, always.

She rolled her eyes at herself. The next thing she knew, she'd politely be asking how high when Quinn requested her to jump.

Still...

She'd never felt so deeply about anyone before. Her entire being seemed to gravitate toward the ex-cheerleader, against her better judgement. It was as if everyone else preceding Quinn was inconsequential, living and breathing bodies without a trace of something to spark her interest until the blonde had turned around and introduced herself in the hallway. Then and only then did she pay attention to someone other then herself, and consequently, make a sincere friend in Mike in a less striking manner than the connection with Quinn.

Leroy was different. He was a mentor and fellow alien from Lorien, but her care for him didn't go further than a grudging acquaintance.

Quinn, however, was consuming and intensively engrossing, making Rachel want to be in her presence at all times, pathetically enough.

Rachel sighed. Heart and mind in battle, it was obvious which one would be the winner.

She could only hope that Leroy's anger would not be too drastic, when he would inevitably find out about her honesty with Quinn.

Exiting the store and finding a bench to sit on for a quick minute, she took off her necklace and held it up to her face with one hand.

The engraved image of her Loric name swung slowly in the breeze, and Rachel pressed the camera lens to her eye, and snapped a photo.

Hearing the film winding itself back into its container, Rachel extracted the cylinder, placed it in her pocket, and replaced her necklace around her throat, feeling the cold alloy settle against her flesh, as if reminding her of her ancestry. The camera was burrowed into her jacket for safekeeping, and Rachel straightened up, finding her bearings and setting off for Quinn's house, a grim frown on her mouth.

Knowing her decision was foolish, reckless, and altogether condemning to Leroy's teachings, she ignored her common sense.

Quinn deserved to know.

* * *

Rachel drew her knuckles from the front door, bottom lip captured anxiously between her teeth as she waited for Quinn to answer.

She stood for not a minute before an older, shorter blonde was revealed, smiling brightly.

"Hello, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel smiled cordially. "Is Quinn home?"

"She told me that to tell you that there's a sleepover at Kurt's house," Judy replied cheerily. "Should I call and tell her you're coming?"

"No, thank you," Rachel countered, fashioning a distracted smile for Quinn's mother and stepping back. "I'll see her when I get there."

"Bye, Rachel! Stay warm out there! Have fun!"

Tucking her chin into her collar and wincing at the cold, Rachel texted Mike in query of directions to Kurt's house, and began to walk.

She admired the Christmas decorations as she traipsed through Lima, feeling trepidation swirling in her stomach.

Would Quinn even accept her admittance of the truth, let alone her secret? What if Quinn laughed herself silly and dumped her for being insane? Would she? Rachel didn't know if Quinn would believe her, and that was the worst part—the possibility of Quinn mocking her.

Feeling the frigid air bite fiercely at her exposed skin, Rachel shivered as she walked up the steps to Kurt's front door, anxious.

She rung the doorbell, and found an average-looking man, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt, and a trucker cap in front of her in the threshold.

"Hi," she addressed uncomfortably, "I'm—"

"Rachel, right?" The man questioned, amiable. "Burt Hummel. Kurt's dad. All the girls are in the basement."

The brunette followed Kurt's father inside, and thanked him as she opened the cellar door, descending the steps in near silence.

Voices drifted into her ears, making her sad as she monitored the conversation.

"...don't know what to do," Quinn was saying. "She's so awesome and great, but I don't know how to feel about the distance we have."

"Everyone needs a little mystery," Tina volunteered, trying to be a sideless mediator. "She probably doesn't know how to open up."

"Or she's jerking you around, Quinn," Santana guessed. "I like her, I really do. She beats Finnocence, totally. But lying to you? No dice."

Rachel made her presence known after that, feeling positively sick with despair as the five girls and one boy quickly shushed each other.

"Hi," she offered softly, words slower than usual, more to Quinn than anyone. "Mrs. Fabray told me you were here."

"Staying tonight?" Kurt asked, sensing her discomfort with a sympathetic smile. "We've got plenty of room if you want to."

Rachel felt her throat close painfully, longing to be a human becoming suffocating and more prominent by the second. She bit her lip.

_Explain. Explain. Explain. _

This was why she was here, wasn't she? She couldn't lose the courage now, or she'd never be able to tell Quinn.

"No," she answered, tone tremulous, suppressing the yearning to be conventional and simple. "I actually came to...talk to Quinn."

Quinn's gaze snapped to her face, examining the way her eyes shone with a combination of sheer desperation and sad determination.

The blonde brushed past Santana's protective arm with a small squeeze of the Latina's wrist and Santana glowered warningly at Rachel.

Rachel followed Quinn up the stairs, through the kitchen, and the brunette waited as Quinn put on a pair of boots, a jacket, and a fluffy hat before leading the way into the backyard, finally stopping at the stone bench beside the border fence, furthest away from the house. Rachel's sneakers crashed loudly through the snow, and Quinn glanced at them in concern before returning her eyes to Rachel's face in rapt curiosity. Rachel sat down next to Quinn with a small, unhappy sigh and extracted Quinn's camera and the film, passing both over.

"Done with your camera," she murmured, as Quinn tucked the items into her pocket.

"Anything good?" Quinn asked softly, pulling distractedly at her boot with her still-injured ankle.

"A lot. Especially the last."

"What is it?"

Rachel reached inside her shirt and brandished the intricate pendant, and Quinn's hand extended to skim the surface with her fingers.

"What is it?" Quinn repeated, puzzled.

Rachel sucked in a panicked breath and Quinn dropped her hand in reaction, looking at Rachel in automatic care.

"I...I need to ask you to have an open mind," Rachel countered instead. "You wanted to know more about me, but it's not...normal."

"How is not normal?"

Rachel stood up, facing away from Quinn to check the kitchen window, and finding no one looking at the duo, before rotating back to the blonde. Her mind screaming, half-approving and half-chastising at what she planned to reveal, she leaned down and kissed Quinn almost forcefully on the lips, feeling her girlfriend reciprocate instantly, relishing the action, as if she hadn't been able to experience it in awhile.

"For luck, I guess," Rachel mumbled, when Quinn regarded her as seriously as she could, whilst slowing her breathing.

Rachel didn't remove her eyes from Quinn, but lifted her palm higher into the air, allowing the familiar bluish glow to lighten the night.

Quinn gasped.

"What _is_ that?" She demanded shakily, scooting sideways in blind panic, further from Rachel as Rachel's Lumen disappeared from view.

"It's something I can do," Rachel answered, almost inaudibly. "It's part of who I am...what I am."

Quinn stared, eyes wide, as Rachel bent down, grabbing a plain stone littered near the bench, and held it close before crushing it to dust.

The crumbs sprinkled from Rachel's open palms like a shower of sharp, dangerous gravel, and Rachel stared at Quinn without speaking.

"How did you do that?" Quinn squeaked, arms flapping madly.

Rachel's heart seized at the note of open fright in Quinn's voice.

"I'm strong," Rachel murmured, smiling sadly. "I'm sorry I hadn't told you sooner. I thought it would be better that way."

"Told me what?" Quinn shrieked. "That you're...a _freak_?"

Rachel blanched as Quinn stepped back, making a considerable distance between herself and Rachel. She eyed the Loric girl suspiciously.

"This is why Karofsky is scared of you," the blonde realized, coldly. "You beat him up, didn't you?"

"They shouldn't have jumped me in the first place," Rachel snapped back. "It was Finn's idea, remember?"

"You don't have records," Quinn burst out unexpectedly, looking irrationally shaken up. "I heard St. James. What _are _you, Rachel?"

Rachel's eyes brimmed with tears. "Your girlfriend. The one who knows you, and listens to you, and—"

"You lied to me," Quinn countered, looking angry. "And you couldn't even think to tell me this before we were together?"

"You would've told someone!" Rachel exclaimed in distress. "I can't just tell everyone!"

Quinn was shaking her head rapidly, hands covering her mouth, looking nauseated. "I can't...this isn't...you shouldn't have lied to me."

"What I supposed to say?" Rachel shouted. "That hey, I'm an _alien_ and I have special _powers_? Would that make you feel better?"

"What?" Quinn croaked, eyes widening in alarm, petrified now. "_What_?"

Rachel paled.

"How is that..." Quinn sputtered, looking close to tearing her hair out, flinching when Rachel tried to get closer. "I don't..._why?_ Why me?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you know all of this and get close to me?" Quinn yelled. "You built this thing on a big lie and expect me to be okay with it?"

"I know you wanted to know about me," Rachel pleaded desperately. "Didn't you? Here I am! This is me, Quinn. It's still Rachel."

Quinn shook her head again, looking as if she was about to puke, and her gaze made Rachel's heart snap in agony. It just...disgusted.

Rachel _repulsed_ her.

Rachel could practically feel her taut lungs demanding breath that she couldn't give, not now.

The blonde inched backwards, skittishly, nearly tripping over herself in her haste, and Rachel made to follow, grief making her stumble.

"No, Rachel," Quinn ordered shakily, fearfully. "Stay away from me!"

"Quinn, please, I l—"

Quinn laughed harshly, hysterically, inciting pure sorrow from Rachel. "Stay away from me, Rachel. I don't even want to look at you."

Rachel could only watch in crippling, awful despair as the blonde rushed inside, hand covering her mouth and sobs spewing from her lips.

Snow cascaded slowly from the sky as Rachel fought the urge to sink to her knees in defeat, pain almost overwhelming her small body.

Some spark of intelligence zinged across her numb brain after a few torturous minutes, and Rachel lifted her cell phone to her ear.

"Rachel?"

"Mike," she replied thickly, throat uncomfortably tight, making it difficult for her to talk. "She...Quinn..."

"Oh, Rachel," he sighed, pityingly. "She didn't take it well?"

"Pretty sure," Rachel squeaked. "Pretty sure...that we're _over_."

The sentence pressed down on her, still sinking in, and she felt horribly cold. She felt heavy, burdened with a weight she didn't possess.

She listened to Mike's intake of breath.

"Are you still at Kurt's?"

"Yeah," she rasped, the wind more severe to her now, more bitter than before, like her. "Please come and get me?"

"I'm on the way, Rach," he promised sadly. "You can count on me."

* * *

Mike didn't take longer than ten minutes, and he found her kneeling in snow in the backyard, head bowed and her shoulders quivering.

Instead of helping her to her feet, Mike wrapped Rachel into his embrace, and she buried her face into his chest, stifling sobs.

His hand brushed soothingly on her hair, cheek pressed to her forehead as she clutched at his coat.

"It's not the end of the world, Rachel," he murmured, hopeful, but a wild, crazed giggle, born of anguish, escaped Rachel involuntarily.

"It is," Rachel choked, vision blurring with the amount and intensity of her tears. "It is, Mike. She doesn't want me anymore."

"There's plenty of—"

"There isn't," Rachel croaked, pulling back to look at his troubled gaze. "There isn't. I can't be with anyone else."

"Why?" Mike asked in sincere confusion. "I bet a lot of people would like you."

"I can't be with anyone else ever again because...I'm in love with Quinn," Rachel admitted, despondent, chest constricting with agony at the realization. "I'm in love with Quinn and Lorics can only love one person in their entire lives. I found my real soulmate and I lost her."

Mike didn't speak again, and simply held her close, snow tickling their cheeks as she cried into his chest, her heart breaking to bits.


	16. Communication

**Title:** Four

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**This chapter is...eh, for me. I don't know. I must be better at writing fight scenes than normal ones. Hope it's enjoyed.**

* * *

"Rachel."

"Rachel..."

"Stop ignoring me!"

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut, pulling a pillow over her head, muffling the noise of the knocks by her persistent, insufferably determined best friend, hovering just outside her bedroom door. Listening absently, she monitored the heavy, tired footfalls of Leroy's feet in the kitchen, and the brewing clamor of fresh coffee. Distracted by the pleasurable, odd aroma of it, Rachel didn't have time to react when her door swung open, and Mike was yanking the covers off her body, making the brunette scowl and yelp, tugging them back to herself.

"Hey!" She snapped, smacking his hands away a little harsher than she intended when he tried to repeat the action.

"'S time to get up," Mike ordered stubbornly, armed with a trash bag, and he scoffed at the piles of half-eaten food beside Rachel's bed.

"Don't take that!" Rachel shouted in frustration, when he reached out to take her Ben and Jerry's, piled high and melting. "I need it!"

"It's ice-cream! Get over it!" Mike barked, stacking the cartons—yes, plural, very plural—into the the plastic bag. "This is pathetic, dude."

Rachel glowered. "I looked up how to wallow, because, in case you forgot, the love of my life broke up with me. Ice cream is necessary."

Mike smacked his own forehead. "What, been watching _Gilmore Girls _lately, Lorelai?"

She ignored him, simply rearranging the position of the blankets and not looking at Mike. He sighed.

"You had a whole day to stay home," Mike commented slowly, moving to sit at the end of the bed. "It's time to face the music."

"How's practice been?" Rachel asked unhelpfully, running her fingers aimlessly along the comforter. "Without me there, I mean."

Mike rolled his eyes. "I'm sitting alone. The guys won't get into it, Kurt and the girls surround...her," he hedged, when Rachel blanched, "and Mr. Schue is still as annoying as ever. The reconnaissance trip we did made it ten times worse—he's pushing _another_ assignment."

"What on?"

Mike muttered something offensive in regards to their persistent director, irritated, before grumbling out, "whatever. I don't care."

Rachel traced nonsense patterns without replying again, and Mike shifted in his seat, running a hand through his hair.

His eyes studied the redness around hers, and the subtle, yet still noticeable, tremor in her face, as if about to cry at any moment. They'd left Kurt's soon after his appearance, returning to Mike's house for some mindless slaughter in COD, but, as obtuse as boys were, Mike _did_ know that Rachel would be hurting longer than he could comprehend, and thus convinced a puzzled Leroy to let her stay home, fishing off that Rachel's soulmate suddenly had a change of heart and dumped her, quite unceremoniously. Leroy's gaze had tightened in a combination of confusion and empathy, before acquiescing and shuffling to monitor his laptops for traces of Mogadorians, to Mike's relief.

"Rachel, I know it's going to be hard, but you've got to go back tomorrow," Mike said quietly. "You can't avoid her forever."

She wished she could. It would make the constant pressure on her lungs lessen, and her eyes to stop burning with suppressed tears. To be free of Quinn's grasp would fix everything, until the thought registered and anxiety yanked her close again, in fear of Quinn's safety.

"I understand."

"Maybe she'll want to get back together with you," he suggested hopefully. "You never know..."

Rachel's sigh was heavier than she was. "Doubt it. I betrayed her confidence with a secret that was too extraordinary for her to accept."

Mike's placating optimism couldn't do much, so the dancer relented but tossed clean clothes at her with a stern expression.

"You're still going to school."

"Okay," Rachel murmured, unconcerned, and ambled to the bathroom to change and freshen up, Mike's worried eyes trailing after her.

* * *

It was a strange experience, Rachel deduced, drawing idly in her notebook, to be in love with Quinn.

She likened it to...science and faith. Always contrasting, never in agreement, which was exactly how she was feeling at this instant.

Well, aside from the painful heartache and extreme urge to curl up in her room and attempt to gain some sleep, a failed effort as of late.

The library was her current safe haven, and location of her skipping during Home Economics, knowing at once that seeing Quinn—regardless of whether Quinn still worked at her table—would be too much, too fast, and chose to mentally prepare in a quiet, secluded section of McKinley High, luckily a site that most students deliberately ignored. The frequent visitors were further away from her corner, and she sat in relative peace, chin on her right hand. Rachel had considered skipping all day, but she knew Mike would be disappointed.

Her thoughts ventured back to her—well, not _hers_ anymore—blonde, a constricted, discontented sigh escaping her lips.

Quinn was everywhere, all at once. Rachel's head, of course, was a constant melting pot of anything absolutely relating to Quinn at all. Her gleaming smile, the shy blush that graced her face, the gentle laugh, the low tone of voice she used and the sparkling eyes, primarily, were on an perpetual loop, in an unfortunately uncomfortable reverse to aversion therapy, everything merging together to create—in her superior recollection skills and terribly biased opinion—a crystal clear image of her ex-girlfriend, a shining grin on her features that out-radiated the Sun's glare by trillions of ultraviolet light. Quinn this, Quinn that, Rachel just couldn't elude the sad regret if she wanted to.

It was unfair, to say the least, because half of her brain was pointedly upset, while the other side was pointedly, annoyingly, passive.

Of course it was Quinn's decision, of course she could do whatever she pleased, of course Rachel would comply. Space? Sure, got it.

Number Four was gracious. Number Four was a bit crestfallen, having lost her true love so early, but cherished the time spent together.

Rachel Berry, however, was distressed. Rachel Berry was angry and devastated and crushed, because her ex-girlfriend couldn't take her secret, let alone regard her like the human being she was pretending to be, but just gawked at her like she was a rotten, ghastly beast.

Science and faith, once again. Science was logical. Science argued her brain was _wired_ to accept Quinn's choice. Quinn wanted distance, and Quinn didn't want her anymore. Regrettably, how these humans could lose interest, but alas, she must revel in the past, and simply exist. Faith, on the flip side, was passionate—faith wanted Quinn, faith wanted to apologize, faith wanted to get Quinn back at all costs.

To put it simply, and in the easiest summary in lay man's terms, Rachel wanted Quinn back, but her mind made her struggle to do so.

Even simpler, she could not decide what to do if or when Quinn looked at her, to fight or flight—fight being Rachel and flight being Four.

It was quite a strange experience, to be in love with Quinn, was the restless, uneasy thought that summed up Rachel's musings exactly.

Her hands began to tear her notebook in half, methodically watching the paper rip and separate slowly with a sharp, rusty noise.

"What are you doing?"

Rachel dropped the notebook in a blind panic, heart leaping into a sprint as Quinn sat down across from her, indifferent, yet curious.

"N-nothing," Rachel stammered, scooting backwards a tad, as Quinn's eyes narrowed in instinctual worry, although unconsciously.

"What did you tear that in half?" Quinn inquired softly, words floating like a nighttime breeze into Rachel's panicky ears.

In a quick assertion of the blonde's face, Rachel noticed she didn't appear to have slept either, and looked far too pale to be entirely fine.

Rachel fumbled for something articulate to say when Quinn pulled her chair closer to the table, the Loric girl automatically leaning back.

She wanted space, didn't she? Why on earth would she be speaking with her if she didn't want time away from Rachel?

Why were humans so goddamn indecisive all the time? For the love of Pittacus Lore, couldn't Quinn just make up her mind?

Rachel's Loric persona took it quite literally, her human identity made to grind her teeth, but didn't.

"Uh...thinking," Rachel squeaked, stomach whirling slowly in a medley of acceptance, fear, and desperation. "Hard. Thinking hard."

Quinn's eyebrows rose at her fidgety demeanor, but didn't comment on it. "So...about...at Kurt's—"

"What about it?" Rachel burst out, before her mouth clamped shut, only to open stubbornly, in human temperament, "the break-up?"

Quinn flinched, clasping her hands together on the table, as if about to pray, and her gaze lit up with a dark, contemplative frustration.

"Why did you lie to me, Rachel?"

"I had to," Rachel replied, rather angrily, humanity suppressing her polite, alien stoicism in order to be rude. "To protect you, of course."

"What do you mean, 'of course'?" Quinn queried, nettled. "Unlike Mike, I've been out of the loop here."

Rachel scowled, but was unable to deter an answer for long, and sat up a bit. "I'm...technically, the subject of an invisible wanted poster."

Quinn's eyebrows were now nearly at her hairline, expression carefully neutral, and Rachel stiffened, defensively.

"It's hard to explain."

"Simplify it."

"Not here, Quinn," Rachel hissed, resentment boiling hot in her veins. "I can't just _tell_ you where anyone could hear us!"

Quinn's teeth bared in a furious grimace.

"Now," Rachel retorted in a forcibly calmer tone, "if you'd like to know anything, I can tell you sometime after school."

"Alone?" Quinn asked warily, but blanched, apologetically, as if realizing the severity of her words, and mumbled in a guilty tone, "okay."

"Mike will come too," Rachel told her, despair reacquired and battling with rage and apathy, "so you won't feel _frightened_ by me again."

"Rachel, I—"

Rachel grabbed her backpack and destroyed notebook, marching from the agitated blonde still seated at the table, heart seizing brokenly.

That wasn't particularly hard, but the strained, breathless feeling in her chest remained, as if an unlucky, consequential result of her ire.

James Dean would've won an Oscar on her teenage angst.

* * *

"Really?" Mike observed, tilting his head to the side. "I can't see her actually coming to talk, though. I'd see her still being afraid."

"We'll see," Rachel murmured vaguely, feeling her neck prickling oddly with the feeling of eyes on her. "Are they all watching me?"

"Yup," Mike answered, irked. "It's _really_ immature."

Mike glowered at a glaring Santana and Mercedes at what he dubbed the 'Klingon' table—("Rach, geddit? We're the Vulcans because you're the enemy alien species!") and mashed his sandwich around in his mouth, chewing pointedly and extending his tongue past his lips, laden with goopy, half-masticated slop and groaning theatrically until Santana and Mercedes recoiled in disgust and looked away.

"I won," Mike boasted, swallowing his sandwich with a sickening gulp and grinning widely. Rachel grimaced.

"And you're calling _them_ immature?"

"I'm doing this for you!" Mike protested, indignant. "Grossing them out keeps them away. I'm planning on doing elbow farts soon."

Rachel looked mildly disturbed at Mike's protective enthusiasm.

"Sometimes, I question the thought processes between males and females," the brunette commented, revolted. "Especially yours."

"Whatever," Mike complained sourly. "You'll be thanking me when Santana refuses to go anywhere near us."

"Sure, Spock. Whatever you say," Rachel joked, teasing. "Lucky for me, you're an acceptable bodyguard for human interactions."

"And you handle the Big Bads," Mike nodded agreeably. "Somehow I have evolved into Xander Harris. Fantastic."

"You do act the part, Mike."

Mike huffed. "I'm not a spineless wimp like the Zeppo. I'm offended, Rach."

Rachel laughed, mood ascending a fraction.

"Sorry."

* * *

She squirmed, hands folded in her lap, playing anxiously with the hem of her plaid skirt as Mike sat stoically next to her, eyes dark.

It was her first glee practice, post-break-up with Quinn.

Post-break-up.

It sounded so uncomplicated privately, but the abhorrent stress on her head and body reminded her that it was entirely the opposite.

Rachel's gaze remained lowered and refused to lift as the other members filed in, laughs dissipating and conversations becoming whispered and distant, as she choose to concentrate (at Mike's adamant suggestion, in concern of the definite barbs that would be thrown about her in automatic nastiness to support Quinn) on the rhythmical, unfaltering ticks of the clock perched on the wall. Rachel listened to the gears turning, spokes weaving and bobbing so hard that she didn't immediately notice Finn sitting beside Quinn, talking quietly, a flirtatious air about himself. Mike was already angry for her—his arms were crossed over his chest and his jaw flexed twice.

"So, Quinn," Finn began, voice rising a decibel, arrogantly, "what are you doing later?"

Rachel's blood turned cold, as she clasped her hands together, forcibly blocking any flash of Lumen that might appear without her notice.

She could see Mike turning in his seat, doing his self-appointed job of scowling at an expectant Santana, waiting for Rachel's reaction.

"Taking pictures," was the blonde's abrasive answer, as she tilted her head slightly, letting Brittany, sitting behind her, to braid her hair.

"Oh. Wanna go to Breadstix with me?"

Rachel's grip tightened, her skin waning in color to an unsightly shade of white, circulation cut off in her hands.

"No."

Finn pouted. "Why not? You're single, I'm single..."

"That's a really good observation, Finn," Quinn remarked dryly, smiling at Brittany's soft giggle, as the other blonde tugged on her hair.

"Thanks. So, would you want to go bowling instead or something? As friends?"

Santana snorted. Mike coughed.

"No."

"Why are you being so mean?" Finn complained. "I'm just really in love with you. Cut me some slack, would you?"

Quinn rolled her eyes.

"I could just cut you," Mercedes commented, irritable, accepting Kurt's fist-bump and practiced hair twirl. "My girl says no, so back off."

"Mercedes, I'd really like it if you stayed out of my business," Finn mumbled, vexed.

"It's not her fault you can't land a girl. Maybe you should switch to guys," Santana remarked loftily. "I know _someone_ interested..."

Kurt blushed.

Fortunately, and temporarily placating Quinn's annoyance, Rachel's silent rage, Mike's open indignation, and Finn's obvious embarrassment, Mr. Schue walked in, arms laden with sheet music, a bright smile on his face, and the group was mutually distracted, attention diverted. Rachel slouched casually into her chair, relaxing her hands and posture, listening absently to Mr. Schue's new assignment, centered around the word 'hello' and the apparent news that they were new people after becoming victorious at Sectionals.

Rachel's eyes glazed over, mind conjuring up an image, fresh from One's memories, of a Malaysian outdoor market, becoming distracted with the phantom noises and foreign smells of the lifespan not her own, seeing a blurry flash of Silas, presumably walking ahead of Isaac.

"Zor-El," Mike murmured, voice drawing her back to reality, as the vision, apparition, flavors faded from her brain. "Pay attention, pal."

Rachel blinked, nudging the boy gratefully and he stepped on her foot briefly in acknowledgement.

Practice passed without further interruption, and Rachel dwelled in her seat, Mike and Quinn doing the same, until the room cleared out.

Quinn stood up nervously, eyes darting to the door and Mike, until she mumbled a query about an explanation.

"Do you really want to know, Quinn?" Mike inquired, wincing at Rachel's elbow to the ribs, making sure he was polite.

"Well, if you can handle it, I certainly can," Quinn replied stubbornly, smoothing her dress as she stood up.

"Without blowing up again?" Mike remarked, tone now containing an unpleasant, skeptical edge. "I doubt that one."

"Mike," Rachel warned evenly. "Stay out of it."

Quinn's car keys jingled loudly in her hands as she shifted her weight from foot to foot, unsure.

The duo waited as Quinn deliberated, looking as if she was contemplating escape.

"Okay," Quinn croaked at last, making Rachel's shoulders dip in sympathy. Mike's expression softened as well, understanding belatedly that he hadn't exactly reacted calmly either. Mike collected their bags, slinging them over his arm gallantly, and Rachel made to take Quinn's hand, but thought better of it and gestured for Quinn to follow, Mike several feet behind them, as all three left the choir room.

* * *

"Where are we?" Quinn questioned, ears turning redder by the minute at the harsh cold.

"Near Shepherd Falls, I guess," Mike answered, sitting on a fallen tree, inattentively flipping the pages of a Superman comic book.

Rachel stood in silence, hands placed on her hips, eyes fixed on the ex-cheerleader striving to collect herself.

Quinn fastened her scarf tighter around her neck, and nodded to Rachel to begin, trying to remain expressionless.

"As I said...before," Rachel started awkwardly, "I'm actually an alien...um, obviously not human...well, duh."

"By the way, Quinn," Mike interjected at the blonde's noiselessness, "she doesn't have tentacles or anything. Or, like, a lizard face, like _V_."

"Mike!" Rachel barked, exasperated. "You're going to scare her!"

"I was worried about you, idiot!" Mike snapped back. "_Quinn_ might've been concerned about your...body, or something! I don't know!"

"I wouldn't be," Quinn murmured honestly, without thinking about it. "It wouldn't really matter to me."

Rachel's cheeks flamed brightly and Quinn appeared to realize her slip of the tongue and blushed pink, all to Mike's amusement.

Getting these two back together would be a cinch was the general translation of the scheming boy's thoughts, as he listened.

"A-anyway," Rachel stammered, "I'm from a planet...er, very far away."

Mike giggled obnoxiously and muttered something about _Star_ _Wars, _and Quinn's anxiety lessened, mouth quirking into a slight smile.

"Stop interrupting me!" Rachel exclaimed, frustrated. "As I was _saying_ before the _interruption_, my planet is a great distance from here."

"What's the...uh, name?" Quinn asked, curious.

"Lorien."

Quinn glanced at Mike, who nodded once, as if confirming Rachel's story, and returned her gaze to Rachel.

"I've been here for ten years now," the brunette went on, "since myself, Leroy, and the others had to leave Lorien after the invasion."

"Leroy?"

"Her dad," Mike countered. "He's not really her dad, though. They're not related. It's just a cover."

"Who are the others?"

"Other teenagers like me, out in the world," Rachel explained, rushing to elaborate, "ones with powers. We're the last of our kind."

Quinn's eyebrows furrowed, taking everything in and looking like she was processing carefully, trying not to get overwhelmed. It was bizarre, spilling her secrets to Quinn without a care of the consequences, but the relief that Quinn was accepting it, however cautiously.

"What about that invasion you mentioned?" Quinn queried, puzzled. "That made you leave..._Lorien_, right?"

"We had to leave because of a Mogadorian invasion," Rachel said. "Mogadorians are a separate alien race, and Mike compares them to—"

"—Dementors, Klingons, Romulans, Draconians, Death Eaters—"

"Thank you," Rachel broke in pointedly, as Mike sulked, grumbling, "but in essence, yes. They invaded our planet and...killed everyone."

"Everyone?" Quinn asked, pityingly. Rachel nodded, scuffing her loafer on the ground. "Do you remember it?"

"Some of it," Rachel admitted. "I was only five, but, I do recall the event, some of the attack, and my grandparents."

Quinn exhaled, breath crystallizing in the air. Rachel suppressed an insane, inappropriate desire to kiss her, squirming a bit. Mike smirked.

"Okay," the human girl announced, finding a log to sit on. "What else?"

"Well, the Mogadorians are the reason that I couldn't tell you," Rachel answered. "I was afraid for your safety, of course."

"What would they do to me?"

"Kill you, like the men in Westerville."

"They died because of—them?" Quinn squeaked, aghast, wiggling in her position, looking certainly like she wanted to hug Rachel.

"Those men were reporters...oh, and I didn't have an aunt who died," Rachel added, apologetic. Quinn blanched, acquiescing the point.

"The guys had intel on Rachel and the other Numbers," Mike interrupted, stowing his comic book in his bag. "We had to save Leroy, too."

"Why?" Quinn asked, looking shocked. "Did they kidnap him or something?"

"Leroy was investigating them because they mentioned 'Mogadorian' in my alien magazine," Mike explained hastily, hurried. "That shouldn't have happened because Rach and the other Lorics are a secret, obviously, and humans like us aren't supposed to know. Leroy went to explore, we had to find him, and found out the dudes were working for the Mogs. They called them and we barely escaped."

"Oh," Quinn mumbled, eyes wide, before a thought registered in her complete confusion. "What are _Numbers_?"

"My real name," Rachel clarified, uneasy. "Rachel Berry is an alias."

"Her name is actually Number Four or Four," Mike added. "And I know what you're thinking. This is hard. But it's Rachel. Always was."

Quinn nodded, and Rachel avoided her eyes until the blonde spoke again.

"Where are the other ones?"

"We need to stay separated at all times. Divide and conquer. The Mogadorians are planning to take over Earth, too, by the way."

"Oh," Quinn squeaked. "Oh. Okay. Okay. The fate of the entire world is in my gir—your hands, and _teenagers_ like you."

Mike turned to hide his grin as Rachel blushed, along with Quinn, realizing her mistake.

"Yup...unfortunately. But we should head back," Mike suggested, when an uncomfortable silence had stretched. "It's getting late."

The pair followed the boy on the path between the trees.

Without warning, Quinn's foot snagged on a rock, sending her careening sideways into Rachel, clumsy luck striking again.

Rachel's arm gripped Quinn's elbow, holding her upright, and helped the blonde straighten up, fixing her jacket.

"Are you okay?" The Loric girl asked lowly. It was more than a question of her current health, but an inquiry about her acknowledgement of Rachel's past. Luckily, the blonde nodded with a rush of color to her face, hastily rushing to follow Mike without answering verbally.

Feeling a strange mix of elation and wistfulness, the brunette pivoting to pursue her ex and her best friend, head bowed to her chest.

* * *

"She's so not over you," Mike remarked after about a week, searching in vain for a calculator in his locker. Rachel rolled her eyes.

"_Mike_."

"What? Can't I state the truth? I'll say other things that are true; the sky is blue. Quinn's in love with you. It rains sometimes, too."

Mike mentally patted himself on the back at the rhymes.

Rachel stared at the floor, lips pursed—choosing to suppress the leap of irrational hope at Mike's assumption—and Mike smirked in victory.

"She's taking it pretty well," Mike prodded. "That's good news."

"I guess. She has a right to know, in any case."

"She also has a right to jump you," Mike sniggered, looking at the blonde at the end of the hall, watching them with glassy eyes.

"Mike," Rachel grumbled. "Stop interfering."

"I'm not," Mike replied innocently. "I'm only doing my duty as your best friend to tell you the truth about life."

"Your sarcasm is not appreciated."

"Sarcasm is one of my native languages."

Unable to resist, Rachel peeked at Quinn, who stood beside Kurt's locker, books held loosely in her hands, hair free and shining like gold. Quinn blinked, as if sensing Rachel's stare, and didn't look away, sending a shiver down Rachel's spine. Little things like that—a heavy scrutiny like now or even a brush past Rachel, on accident, sending a whiff of sweet perfume in Rachel's direction—made her head spin wildly, heart almost expanding beneath her ribs, affection returning easily. Rachel often wondered if all Loric experienced such a feeling: the continuous acceptance that her love was strong and constant, but in Rachel's case, reined in to placate Quinn's..._request_ for space.

Space was becoming a difficult achievement, lately. Especially from the girl who actually demanded it.

_How heedless humanity is,_ Rachel thought. _They live on impulse and thoughtlessness and excitement without considering the results._

"You look like you're trying to solve the theory of life or something," Mike remarked, closing his locker.

"Archimedes and Democritus," Rachel replied, smiling at Mike's confusion, still on a slight high from just looking at Quinn.

She internally winced. That sounded a lot more like a fervid stalker than she wanted, even in her own head.

"They were the first to attempt to organize a theory of everything, Michael."

"How smart _are_ you?" Mike demanded loudly, seeing her eyes slide to Quinn again, the blonde departing, arm linked playfully with Kurt's.

"Hmm?"

"Rachel. Focus. How smart are you?" Mike asked, impatient. "For future reference."

"Oh. I don't know—more than Einstein, I think," Rachel answered with a nonchalant shrug. "I'm like, eons evolved _ahead_ of you."

Rachel waved cheerily to Mike as he gaped, speechless and envious, as she left for class.

Sometimes, it paid to be an extraterrestrial, even if her love life was in the doldrums for the moment. At least she could _see_ Quinn.

She was far luckier than Leroy. Her true love was alive and well, and in spite of their separation, was happy on her own.

In the end, grudgingly, as she sat down beside Quinn in Home Economics, who gave her a small smile, if Quinn was happy, she was.

Disappointed, but almost comfortable. She could deal with it.

* * *

To Rachel's upmost frustration—and Quinn's, and perhaps the entire glee club—Finn had not ceased in his pursuit of his ex-girlfriend. Flowers were endless, delivered by the football team (which Quinn gave to Artie and Santana to spring on their girlfriends), chocolates were becoming a regular in the students of McKinley's diet (Quinn gave them graciously to the lunch ladies), and the most aggravating of all, was Finn's relentless waggling of a mistletoe in Quinn's face (for her to hurriedly dodge), in enthusiasm for the Christmas season.

Needless to say, Rachel had ripped in two all of her pencils, most of Mike's extras, and one pen, splattering the ink all over Mike.

"Hey!" Mike yelped, voice in a high-pitched squeak, the dark fluid staining his red shirt (both for the holidays and _Star Trek_ support).

"Sorry," Rachel growled, watching Finn pin mistletoe to the threshold of the choir room, smiling to himself, as if reveling in his genius.

Yeah, right. Finn Hudson being a genius was the day that Rachel repopulated Lorien's entire society on her own.

"Oh, shit. How am I supposed to walk around him?" Mike complained, as Finn waited patiently beside the entrance, whistling a tune.

Mike's question dawned on her after a few seconds, and Rachel tried hard not to grin, but failed and covered her mouth.

"Yeah, yeah. You're hilarious. I say, because I've been such a great help to you all this time, _you _walk by him and get a towel for me."

"Fine," Rachel grumbled. "I'll knee him in the groin if he feels obliged to follow the holiday ritual, I suppose."

Heaving herself out of her seat, Rachel ambled to the door, and Finn glared at her, moving aside with an expression of disgust.

Replying in kind with a contemptuous sneer, Rachel wandered past him, bumping into the next arrival with a muttered apology.

"Sorry, Rachel," Quinn apologized, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ear and flashing a disarming smile. "Didn't see you there."

"That's okay," Rachel remarked, before Finn interrupted loudly.

"Hey, Quinn! Look! Mistletoe! Let's follow tradition this time, huh?"

Quinn blinked, and Rachel watched her eyes suddenly spark with hesitant humor and her lips to extend into a wider smile, ear to ear.

Rachel's gaze flicked up and back to Quinn, swiftly understanding what Quinn's train of thought was, and blushed.

Finn's attempts to get Quinn's attention were becoming muted, futile, and Mike watched closely at the duo beside the door, grinning.

"Want to follow tradition?" Quinn breathed. Rachel realized she was agreeing to it, quite belatedly, and felt Quinn's breath on her cheek.

Finn finally stormed off to sit on the far sight of the room, fuming, but Quinn was already tilting Rachel's chin up, drawing closer.

Unable to resist anything related to Quinn, especially up close, Rachel advanced, abruptly, and let her lips graze against Quinn's, heart and stomach and mind tumbling together in an uncontrollable maelstrom of chaos and impulse when Quinn pressed back, hand grasping Rachel's arm to hold her closer, the kiss like pure fire when Quinn opened her mouth slightly, tongue brushing against Rachel's, eagerly.

Rachel kept her eyes closed when Quinn stepped back an inch, hearing a hot, "Merry Christmas" against her lips.

_Finally_ should've been her first thought. She should've been ecstatic, blithely pleased that Quinn would kiss her again.

Although...

Rachel opened her eyes, seeing Quinn's delight with a bout of complete agitation, logic inconveniently beating desire.

"Why did you kiss me?" Rachel asked softly. "Don't you want me to stay away from you...like that?"

Quinn's smile faded, sparkle diminishing from her gaze, and her shoulders slumped a little.

"Rachel, I'm..."

"Excuse me," Rachel cut in, tears springing to her eyes in despair, pushing past Quinn blindly, escaping her confusion and hurt. Able to avoid colliding with an agape Mercedes and Kurt, Rachel broke into a run, speeding out of the school, eyes blurry and mind in an uproar.

* * *

She didn't stop running until she was near her house, breathing heavier than she should've and feeling her face burn with anger.

Why would Quinn—first of all—break up with her, only to draw her nearer and nearer not a week later?

Then, as if their tentatively renewed friendship wasn't quiet and strained enough, Rachel _had_ to kiss her and mess it up again.

Rachel plopped down to sit on a rock, dragging her hands through her hair and sighing unhappily.

Why couldn't anything in the entire world be easy_,_ for _once_ in her goddamn life?


	17. Spark

**Title:** Four

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Glee,_ nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**To all awesome readers/reviewers, I wanted to thank you, first of all, for following with this fic. I noticed I haven't really _thanked_ you guys a lot, so I thought I would show my appreciation here. I'm glad this story is keeping you sufficiently entertained. ****Hope you enjoy this, and if the plot appears (pertaining to Quinn) rushed, I apologize.**

**Also, I'd call myself a boss. I published a new fic today, updated this, and studied for my finals. Yeaaaaaahh. :)**

* * *

Rachel let her body slide earthward until she was leaning against the rock on the ground, legs extended and toes pointed, brooding silently. Did being in love with someone always drag along confusing baggage? Rachel's eyebrows furrowed, thoughtfully. Her assumption of Loric love—or, the stories Leroy told her in an attempt to describe the intricate way he felt about Hiram, then and now—was that relationships were almost…perfect. Rarely would a Loric couple quarrel; it was even inaccurate to call it 'honeymoon phase' because the 'phase' was never ended. Lorics, upon finding their soulmates, infrequently fought, because they could barely find an issue to fuss about.

_It must be a different experience_, Rachel mused. _A human lover brings jealousy and uncertainty on both ends._

Quinn wasn't like her. Not in upbringing, intelligence, or understanding of the world, and their variation from one another was obvious.

Quinn's interest could wane at any moment. She could become enamored with another and easily leave Rachel behind, but on the rebuttal of the blonde's side, it could be daunting, to hold someone of an extraordinary presence in a devoted thrall without doubting their sincerity. Meanwhile, Rachel's attention would only remain stagnant or wax, staying faithfully in love with Quinn until the day she died (on that note, surely not soon), but she could be blind to the problems that their relationship would inevitably face in the future.

Rachel frowned.

She wasn't in a relationship with Quinn now, though. That fact was glaringly obvious, but her feelings were undeterred by such a factor.

Always.

Everything resided on Quinn's shoulders and her choices. Rachel wouldn't push it, because Quinn's 'appeal' for space still persisted.

She should've paid more heed to the possibility of Quinn's indecision, but, as anyone in love is, was oblivious to change.

She couldn't exactly _say_ that her being in love with Quinn was permanent and irreversible, because Quinn would undoubtedly feel guilt.

Rachel tucked her legs to her chest, sighing softly. Lima certainly was one of the most troubling places she'd ever lived in in her life.

She would never regret staying in Ohio against Leroy's wishes, but she did rue the resolve to hide her abilities from Quinn. Maybe, if she was upfront about it in the beginning, she would feel less of a burn on her heart or better, Quinn would feel more comfortable around her.

Her ears, suddenly, perceived the distant revving of an engine, and affixed with that, wheels crunching, two heartbeats, drumming fingertips, and light breathing. She didn't bother to turn around when she heard the vehicle nearing, recognizing it as a truck, and then, the slam of the doors. Footsteps crushed paths in the snow, filling her eardrums, as she kept her gaze on her shoes when all was quiet.

"You aren't a freak," a familiar voice urged, the figure settling to kneel in front of her, about a foot or two away. "You aren't, Rachel."

"Your idea of me isn't wrong," Rachel countered quietly. "It's natural to be frightened of the unknown when coming in contact with it."

"I was wrong," Quinn admitted stubbornly, drawing closer until she pressed against Rachel's sneakers, hand laying to rest on one of Rachel's knees. "I was scared, but that wasn't a real excuse. I should've stopped to think, but I was just…overwhelmed. I'm so sorry."

Rachel didn't look up. Gently, she toyed with the flimsy flecks of snow littered around her, and Quinn's grip slackened.

"Please look at me, Rachel. Please."

Quinn sounded so desperate, and it made Rachel's eyes scorch, as if she was the one about to cry and not Quinn.

Unwillingly, instinct ordering her assent—damn that alien adoration—Rachel's eyes lifted, meeting the blonde's distraught scrutiny.

"I'm sorry," Quinn repeated, hazel boring imploringly into auburn as her tone strengthened, words emitting quickly from her lips. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I ran. I'm sorry I didn't pause to consider that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me, Rachel."

Rachel didn't answer on principle, and Quinn continued, eyes brimming brightly with tears of frustration.

"You really are. I've been an idiot…for freaking out at you. I'm this close to losing…you...and how you make me feel and it's terrifying."

"I didn't mean to jerk you around, either," she added unsteadily. "I just…I _missed_ you a lot, and it hurt, because it was my own fault for pushing you away when I should've realized that it didn't matter. I don't care about where you came from, and I don't care that you have powers. You're just Rachel to me. _My_ Rachel. I'm crazy about you and you having a few funky quirks is the least of my worries."

"Really?" The brunette queried, lower than a whisper, hardly able to accept the idea, let alone believe that she was actually hearing it.

"Really. You lied for a reason. You were trying to protect me, and yourself, and even that didn't stop me from falling in love with you."

Rachel looked disbelieving, and Quinn's laugh was both amused and a little sad, returning her hands to spread over Rachel's kneecaps.

"I am. I'm in love with _you, _Rachel. For awhile now—I just didn't want realize it at first. I thought you lying to me was the final flaw…the weak spot that I was waiting for," Quinn explained dejectedly. "Puck and I were more friends than anything, and Finn was someone who I eventually couldn't stand because I just couldn't accept who I was becoming with him. You were different and it honestly surprised me. I've been pretty cynical about relationships after those two, and you just swept me off my feet," the blonde concluded with a small smile.

Rachel nodded, heart warming considerably. Quinn's hand reached out, hesitantly, fingertips grazing lightly along Rachel's cheek.

Rachel covered Quinn's hand with her own, and the blonde's smile was blindingly white, like looking directly into the sun at high noon.

"Everyone in glee calls you a star behind your back," Quinn murmured gently. "You know that?"

"I didn't."

"It's true, only, it's the wrong connotation…you may sing better than anyone I know, but…you're my little star. Literally."

Rachel blushed.

"When I first saw you, I thought you were the prettiest human I'd ever seen in my entire life," the brunette admitted, bashful.

"You did?"

It was Quinn's turn to color when Rachel nodded truthfully, smiling slightly at the memory.

Rachel lowered Quinn's hand and cradled both in her own, the warmth radiating from Quinn's skin a pleasant alleviation to the winter air.

"So…" Quinn trailed off, smiling tentatively. "Do you…accept my apology?"

"Yeah," Rachel answered, relieved. "I do."

"Will you…can you be my girlfriend again?" Quinn asked, sheepishly. "I've been a complete ass but I really want to make it up to you."

"Only if you accept my apology for lying to you," Rachel returned determinedly. "Even if they were offered for your safety."

"Definitely."

Rachel brightened, the pressure plaguing her chest since the reveal of her powers lessening until it disappeared completely. "Okay."

She felt different than she could ever remember, right then, as their issues were resolved. Like she could just…erase her worries about the Mogadorians, cancel out her anxiety about exposure to the human population, remove her errant annoyance with Finn or Karofsky, and simply lose herself in the awareness of Quinn's actual, confessed love for her, finally requited. Rachel knew that Quinn being in love with her could be a temporary luxury, but the silly, senseless sensation of giddiness in her chest managed to abolish her uncertainties.

Rachel wondered, mind appeased, how other Lorics like herself could stand such happiness constantly, in the planet's past.

They sat, smiling goofily for a minute, until the car horn honked loudly, interrupting their unofficial staring contest. Quinn rolled her eyes.

"Santana's my ride," the blonde explained, grumpy. "I had to bribe her to bring me here."

"With what?"

Quinn didn't have time to answer—in the interim, the Latina had exited her car, shoved Quinn aside, earning a yelp, and hauled up Rachel by the jacket collar, pulling the stunned Loric girl nose to nose with herself, flashing a murderous glare and bared, perfect teeth.

"Alright, Berry. Listen up. I swear to God, hobbit, if you even _think_ about hurting Quinn again, I'll punch your lights out. Clear?"

"Clear," Rachel acquiesced (ignoring the fact that she could fight back to a fatal degree without breaking a sweat), and Santana dropped her grip, making Rachel wobble backwards on her heels before steadying herself, forcing herself to hold Santana's challenging glower.

"I'll be in the car," Santana growled gruffly to Quinn, stomping away to her Lexus and yanking the door shut to stay in the heat.

"She looks angry," Rachel commented dryly, watching the cheerleader's snarl intensify behind the windshield. Quinn chuckled, flustered.

"She's…protective."

Rachel winced.

"Anyway," Quinn interjected, ambling closer to slide her arms around Rachel's waist, "I want to come over tonight."

"To my house?" Rachel asked, as if the thought had never occurred to her before. "Really?"

"Yeah," Quinn grinned. "I want to try sneaking into your room. I can be Spiderwoman too, you know."

"Spiderwoman's debut should not be in December weather," Rachel teased playfully, inching up on tiptoe to kiss Quinn's pout away, relishing in the ability to do so again. "I'll wait for you downstairs. How's…twelve? Leroy's asleep by then and I can keep Elphaba quiet."

"Okay," the blonde agreed, drawing her girlfriend for a longer kiss until Santana honked the horn pointedly, impatient.

"See you later," Rachel smiled, and Quinn beamed, scampering off to Santana's car and vanishing inside, as Rachel watched them leave.

Feeling her heart swell with pure joy, Rachel pivoted on her heel and began her trek to the house, humming a tune under her breath.

* * *

Rachel listened closely, monitoring the evidence of Leroy's slumber, and sat on her bed, absentmindedly patting a sleepy Elphaba Brice on the ears. The dog lounged beside her, but kept herself somewhat awake, as if listening for danger. Rachel's eyes trailed from the canine to her alarm clock, where the minutes ticked up to twelve. Feeling ansty and excited for the rest of the afternoon—and reluctantly explaining Quinn's apology to Mike, who'd brought over her bag and demanded details—Rachel could only calm down and avoid pacing by settling with Elphaba, a mindless activity that kept her occupied. Leroy had been a bit confused, and urged for more training, but Rachel wheedled an excuse about the holidays ("They're important to Quinn") while smoothing over the break-up and make-up to her Cêpan.

Leroy's surprise was articulated in a muttered observation of foolish teenage behavior as he ambled to the living room, shaking his head.

Elphaba's ears perked up, snapping Rachel out of her stupor and she crept out of her room, inching down the stairs, Elphaba at her heels.

Peeking through the window, Rachel saw a vibrant flash of blonde in the darkness, and opened the front door, feeling cold air rush in.

"Hey," Quinn whispered, dressed in her pajamas beneath her jacket. "Is Leroy asleep?"

"Yeah. Let's go to my room."

Quinn unlaced her boots and placed them by the door, before accepting Rachel's extended hand and following the other girl upstairs to her room. Rachel closed the door and leaned on it as Quinn studied the brunette's bedroom with open interest, having not been there before. Elphaba's tail wagged excitedly at the presence of Quinn, who smiled agreeably and ruffled the dog's ears as she examined Rachel's necklace, left on the table. Rachel wandered over and sat down on the bed, watching the blonde run her fingertips over the carved surface, easily, as if the memory of being terrified of Rachel's abilities at Kurt's sleepover would destroy the trinket instantly.

"I forgave you, Quinn," Rachel murmured, startling her girlfriend from her reverie. "It was an honest, normal reaction to—"

"Well, I haven't forgiven myself," Quinn interrupted, setting the pendant back on the nightstand. "Not yet. I wasn't fair to you."

"Oh, Quinn," Rachel sighed, as the blonde glanced at her. "Please let it go. I did. It's in the past, and we're back together now, so—"

"I can't just forget about it," Quinn countered, adamant.

"Try."

"Rachel..."

"Okay," Rachel allowed. "You haven't forgiven yourself just yet, but maybe you could just ignore it tonight and relax a little?"

Quinn's lips twitched as Rachel opened her arms, wiggling her fingers in a summoning gesture, smiling charmingly as she laid down.

"Fine," Quinn grumbled good-naturedly, drifting to the bed and laying beside Rachel, shoulder-to-shoulder. "You just wanted to cuddle."

"Yup. You caught me," Rachel joked, and Quinn giggled.

They were silent for a few minutes, except for an almost inaudible tune that Rachel hummed, absentmindedly playing with Quinn's hair.

Quinn shifted, leaning up on one elbow, and Rachel glanced up, seeing curiosity in Quinn's eyes.

"What?"

"Can you show me again?" The blonde queried. "That thing…with the light on your hands."

Wordlessly, Rachel offered a palm, and Quinn cradled it in her own as the familiar, sapphire gleam glimmered to life, illuminating Quinn's pale face in a blaze of cerulean, and making shadows appear and flicker along the walls of Rachel's bedroom. Rachel observed Quinn's amazement as she peered intently at Rachel's palm, looking for the source of the light, fingertips splaying across the brunette's skin.

"It's called Lumen," Rachel explained. "It's my first Legacy—that's a Loric term for powers."

"That's really…cool," Quinn remarked honestly, at last, as Rachel extinguished the lights. "Did everyone on Lorien do that?"

"Oh, no…there was plenty of variety," Rachel answered. "Invisibility, telepathy, cyrokinesis, teleportation…however, we _all_ get telekinesis."

"Wow," Quinn breathed.

Raising her hand, Rachel conjured her necklace off the table, and the trinket floated slowly, lazily, to rest on Quinn's side of the bed.

"Okay, now you're just showing off," Quinn teased, and Rachel snickered.

Quinn squinted to study the necklace again, peering at the engraved symbol of Rachel's Loric pseudonym, endless interest in her eyes.

"Tell me about Lorien."

Rachel breathed out a heavy sigh before mimicking Quinn's position, leaning on one elbow, fully facing the inquisitive blonde.

"The only accurate description I can really compare Lorien's beauty to is Christianity's Garden of Eden," Rachel elaborated.

"Wow," was the impressed, articulate reply.

"Though, you must forgive me for the example," Rachel continued, smiling a bit self-deprecatingly. "I don't believe in Earth's religions."

"That's okay," Quinn countered, waving a dismissive hand. "Kurt claims to be atheist."

Rachel nodded, and progressed.

"Lorien's culture was simple, too. Those like Leroy—the Cêpan—would be the planet's government. People like myself and the remaining six Numbers…we're titled the Garde. The Garde were soldiers, born and raised to defend our civilization from invaders with our talents."

Rachel's expression became bitter.

"You know how that turned out."

Quinn released the necklace from her hands and took Rachel's in her own, pressing a little kiss to them, making Rachel's smile return.

"Anyway, as I said…the day of the invasion, the nine of us and our guardians managed to escape. We crash-landed on Earth in 2000."

"Where?" Quinn asked curiously, racking her brain for a hazy recollection of extraterrestrial incidents on the news, but finding none.

"Ontario, Canada. The only notice of it was a cluster of lights, vanishing beneath a tree," Rachel replied. "Nothing was ever found."

"You all separated after that, right?"

"Yeah. One of us must've either disposed of the shuttle or something. I still can't remember it, but it'll come back eventually."

"How?"

"Training with Leroy," Rachel explained. "We have this odd blue crystal, and it releases the memories I can't recall on my own."

"Interesting."

"It's a trying experience. I get tremendous headaches more often than not."

Quinn hummed sympathetically, tracing nonsense patterns on Rachel's wrists. "What do you see?"

Rachel paused to appreciate, in amusement, how differently Quinn was taking this than before, and how little seemed to faze her now.

"Images of my first five years, when I was on Lorien…then, in backwards order, the memories of One, Two, and Three."

Quinn's featherlike grazes, now along Rachel's forearms, stilled in their tracks in plain befuddlement. "But…I thought they were dead."

"They are."

Quinn shot her an are-you-kidding-me look, pressing for a more detailed explanation with obvious impatience, and Rachel's lips quirked.

"We're all connected by Lorien's old enchantment. Lorien still lives, and it's a wasteland, but the life force, however weak, is still there."

"So…that lets you see into their minds?"

"The anamnesis of their consciousnesses," Rachel answered. "Using Lorien's energy, I tap into their heads, usually minutes from death."

Quinn grimaced, a pitying air about her shoulders.

"Yes. I agree, it is very morbid. I don't enjoy it, but there isn't much I can do about it."

"That's like…_Clockwork Orange_."

"So it would seem," Rachel acquiesced amiably, picking up the necklace from the bedspread and refastening it around her throat.

Quinn nodded absently, rubbing a hand over her eyes, and laid down, pulling Rachel along with her with an adorable, sleepy insistence.

"I'm glad you told me all this," the blonde mumbled, hazel gaze drowsy and words becoming slightly slurred. "'S cool, being in the know."

Rachel smiled. "You should sleep. We'll be facing the Finnquisition tomorrow and that requires more strength than a Herculanean Labor."

Quinn grumbled something incomprehensible, eyes already closing agreeably, and Rachel allowed herself a quiet moment of relief.

Her girlfriend not only accepted her but reacted calmer than anyone sane would, something entirely infrequent, besides Mike.

_A rare gift_, Rachel mused, settling down, glancing once more at the sleeping blonde next to her, and treasured her decision to be selfish.

Maybe even she, born into altruism—now for the benefit of humanity and not Lorien—could be spared an instant of self-indulgence.

* * *

"_I've_ got a surprise for _you_," Quinn announced, when they were walking to her car in the morning, breaths collecting into the chilly air.

"Do you?" Rachel asked, entertained and mystified with the smug little smile Quinn adorned. "Must be good, I'd guess."

"It is," Quinn singsonged. "I had a _fantastic_ dream, too, and you'll see it at glee practice today."

"Fantastic, huh?" Rachel repeated, eyes dancing. "I'd also guess that you enjoyed this _dream_ quite a bit."

Quinn's blush—much to her displeasure—refused to fade from her cheeks for the reminder of the ride to McKinley, to Rachel's delight.

After reaching school and reciprocating an enthusiastic goodbye kiss that made a pleasant zing reverberate all the way down to her toes, Rachel ambled toward Mike as Quinn fell into step with Tina, delving into a discussion about a Chemistry test. Rachel sighed dreamily.

Mike peered down at her with a grin. "Someone caught the canary."

"I told her more things about Lorien and she's perfectly okay with it," Rachel replied, offering a sunny smile. "Isn't that great?"

"Duh. Now she really is Lois Lane," Mike nodded, amused. "Better watch out, Zor-El. She's got you on a leash."

"She does not!"

"Please," Mike chuckled. "If someone says 'Quinn'—ah, there you go _again_—you smile like a kid stealing cookies from the cookie jar."

Rachel pouted, but her exhilaration wouldn't be suppressed for long.

"She's in love with me, though," Rachel declared, becoming starry-eyed and ecstatic again. "Feels so nice, when I say it aloud."

"You look high," Mike agreed with a snicker. "How sweet. You're trippin' on love. There must be a song about that somewhere."

Rachel rolled her eyes as they shuffled down the hallway, eyeing with disdain the sloppy Christmas decorations glued onto the walls.

"It's okay," Mike mocked her, suddenly, placing a hand over his heart. "I won't tell anyone you're whipped. Promise."

The brunette wasn't pleased with his spiel, and Mike's laughter continued the entire way to History.

* * *

"Whoa, whoa," Kurt interrupted. "When did you get back together?"

"Yesterday," Quinn answered distractedly, doodling in her notebook. "Why?"

"How did this happen?" The boy wondered, frustrated. "You two get together after an unnecessarily long, will-they-won't-they period, which was nauseating, by the way, and everything's peachy-keen and sunshine and daisies. Then, something happens, where Rachel develops a pathological need to lie left and right to you which inevitably created cracks in the foundation of your relationship—"

"That's not—" Quinn growled.

"—and then, at _my_ sleepover, you have a terrible breakup that has _you_ crying in the bathroom _all_ night, without telling your _friends_ what happened, and then it's a week or two of longing looks and sad smiles, and _then,_ bam! A cliché kiss under the mistletoe, where Rachel runs, you chase her, and magically, by the power of the nearest rainbow high in the sky, you get back together and have _nothing_ to say."

"Yes," the blonde smiled condescendingly at Kurt's impatience. "That's exactly how it was."

"Quinn. I need more information. Stat."

"Kurt. I can't give that to you."

"Why?" Kurt yelped, as Mercedes, Santana, Rachel, Brittany, and Mike found seats at the table. Rachel and Santana glared at each other.

Quinn's eyes narrowed as her girlfriend and best friend obviously attempted to step on each other's feet under the table.

"It was Santana," Rachel insisted at once, seeing Quinn's stare. "She cornered me, and threatened me again—"

"Whipped," Mike coughed. Mercedes smirked.

"Shut up, Berry!" Santana snapped. "You don't get to mess around with Quinn and then expect no repercussions!"

"Repercussions. Excellent vocabulary, Santana. Do you even know what it means?"

"I swear, after practice today, I'm gonna—"

"Anyone want my fries?" Brittany questioned, unconcerned. "I'm in a pudding mood today."

"Sure," Mike agreed, exchanging his treat with Brittany, earning a smile. Santana sent a final glower at Rachel before turning to Brittany.

"I won," Rachel mumbled victoriously when the Latina was occupied with her own girlfriend, and Quinn chuckled lowly.

"Here," the blonde whispered, bright, passing Rachel her notebook. Rachel flipped the indicated page and her face broke into a smile.

Sketched loosely was a neat caricature of Rachel herself, wearing a dark, long-sleeve shirt, emblazoned with the letter 'R' and a pleated skirt. In her likeness's arms, was Quinn, dressed in a women's business-suit and wearing glasses on her face. Rachel's smile widened.

"My Lois Lane," the Loric girl grinned. "Nice."

"Duh. Now I can combine photography and being the girlfriend of a superhero...a reporter," the blonde clarified with a quiet laugh.

"Admirable."

"You thought you were sneaky, before, didn't you?" Quinn asked half-amusedly, half-accusingly. "On Thanksgiving, up in my bedroom."

"Oh, yeah. You being the damsel in distress," Rachel agreed, playfully. "I was just surprised you were so oblivious to it, and me."

"Not completely oblivious," Quinn grumbled. "Little people like you don't smack around giants like Karofsky under normal circumstances."

"But you believed it."

"Temporarily."

"You still did, though."

Mike, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversation, scoffed exasperatedly under his breath.

"Could you two be anymore obvious?"

"Yes."

"Butt out, Chang. You're just peeved I beat you at COD the other day."

Mike scowled. "That was pre-reunion. I was too mad at you in Rachel's place that I couldn't focus. I'll destroy you next time, Fabray."

Quinn shrugged once with a sunny, skeptical smile, irritating Mike further, and Rachel snickered.

The trio was silent for a few moments, listening to a heated argument between Santana and Kurt, until Quinn's eyebrows drew together.

"Wait, so when you told me about secretly training in the Himalayas…that was a lie?"

Mike smacked his own forehead.

* * *

"She says she has a 'fantastic' surprise for me," Rachel told Mike as they sat down in the choir room. "I don't know what it is."

"Maybe she'll sing to you," Mike suggested. "Or maybe, if she's into that, dress up like Lois Lane and then you two would act out—"

"Mike!" Rachel hissed, cheeks ablaze with mortification. Mike hid his face with his binder, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"…had to…" Mike squeaked between giggles, and Rachel made sure to smack his arm harder than jokingly, earning a squawk.

"Hey! Don't hit the sidekick! You can't have the hero and the reporter without a Jimmy Olsen! Hey, hey! Hands off the merchandise!"

"You deserve it," Rachel mumbled, embarrassed, retracting her hand to her lap. "And now it's…_uhm_, stuck...in my head. Thank you."

Mike pouted, rubbing his shoulder, as the rest of the club filed in, and to the duo's amusement and irritation, Finn seemed to be sulky.

Mr. Schue began his usual monologue about Regionals—Mike's pout increased, making Rachel smile—but cut it shorter than normal and sat down, as Quinn, Matt, and Puck stood up unexpectedly, pushing Artie's wheelchair to the front. The band and Brad, absent for today, had left a few instruments behind. Puck slung a guitar over his chest, and Artie wheeled over to grab the base. Matt wandered to the drums—Rachel caught the nearly inaudible grumble from Finn—as Quinn brought a microphone to the center of the room, adjusting it to stand just under her jaw, and fiddled a bit with the cord until she was ready, eyes flickering once to Rachel before they settled on Puck.

"Must be a song to you," Mike mused in a whisper, and Rachel nodded, curious at the spectacle.

Puck strummed a chord or two before he began a low, sizzling tune, the electric guitar creating a straining, gritty whine in concert with the hard, thundering drums by Matt, as Artie's hands danced across the strings of the bass, nodding his head slightly, following along.

Quinn was swaying a little in tandem with the boys, fingers held loosely around the microphone stand, until it was her cue.

Fixing a smoldering, sultry gaze on Rachel as a taunting smirk appeared on her lips, she began to sing, voice pointedly lower than usual.

"_So many people gonna say that they want you, t__o try to get you thinking that they really care, b__ut there's nothing like the warmth of the one who has put in the time a__nd you she's gonna be there…_"

Mike's shoulders were practically vibrating with laughter as he watched Rachel's eyes widen, darken, and refuse to blink unless necessary.

Ah, these two. Such hilarity. He should've come prepared with popcorn in case of the amusing drama and/or teasing at Rachel's expense.

Santana was covering her eyes, as if she should ignore the somewhat hot scene, looking uncomfortable. Brittany watched on, smiling.

Kurt was grinning, Finn was scowling at his shoes, Mercedes and Tina were cheering quietly, while Mr. Schue looked simply surprised.

Quinn, pleased with Rachel's reaction, continued, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"_Back on your border when you know someone crossed it, d__on't let nobody put you down, who you're with. __Take the pain of protecting your name, from the crutch to the cane to the high-wire,_" Quinn sang, voice gaining power to project to the entire room and a slightly hoarse growl along with it, to Rachel's upmost surprise and unexpected instant of unadulterated lust, "_I'm in love with a girl who knows me better, fell for the woman just when I met her. Took my sweet time when I was bitter…someone understands. And she knows who to treat a fella right, give me that feeling every night. Wants to make love when I wanna fight, now someone understand me…_"

"..._I'm in love with a girl, I'm in love with, I'm in love with a girl, I'm in love with…_"

At this point, Finn was seething with fury, and Rachel's unsympathetic gaze, almost focused on Quinn anyway, was very smug.

Quinn's tone remained that particularly enticing, low pitch, appearing to closely mimic the harsh, gravelly snarls from Puck's guitar.

Rachel squirmed, forcing the desirous shivers in her spine to remain unnoticeable.

"_Wants to make love when I wanna fight, now someone understand me,_" Quinn concluded with a coarse, rough exhale, and a little grin.

"That was amazing, Quinn!" Mr. Schue crowed promptly, joining in the applause. "You're definitely in the running for a Regionals solo."

"And a V-card _swipe_," Puck muttered, smirking. Quinn stifled a giggle, and flounced to her seat with a mere eyebrow raise at Rachel.

The brunette, suddenly finding the room extremely overheated, tried valiantly to maintain her composure, but ultimately failed.

"Well," Mike surmised, struggling not to burst into guffaws, "at least we know she's fighting for your relationship now."

"How so?" Rachel asked, query sounding strained. Quinn, sitting two rows below, heard the crack in Rachel's tone and smirked to herself.

"She basically said that she doesn't love Finn and in love with a girl. You, doofus," Mike replied. "Duh."

"Right," Rachel mumbled distractedly, staring at the back of Quinn's head. Her hair was _so_ shiny, she just wanted to reach out and—

Mike rolled his eyes at Rachel's complete lack of tact, and pulled out a comic book when Mr. Schue started to talk again.

"The woes of a lesbro," Mike grumbled half-amusedly to himself. "No conversation because the girls go to ogle each other. Lucky me."

Quite oblivious, Rachel continued to admire Quinn for the rest of glee, silently praising the twist of fate that brought her to Lima.

* * *

**("In Love With a Girl" — Gavin DeGraw)**

**Teehee. Did anyone enjoy the tribute to Rachel as much as I did? I adore Gavin DeGraw and I was dying to put the song in and found my opportunity in this chapter. Dianna could put it off, you know, a lá "It's a Man's, Man's, Man's World"?**

**I'll be able to update quicker from now on, because my school gets out tomorrow. Hooray! See you next time, readers! :)**


	18. Ardor

**Title:** Four

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**I apologize for not posting as quickly as I promised. A timeskip will occur and action will pick up again, _very_ soon. Enjoy!**

* * *

_"What is that?"_

_One's breathing and steps were light, wary. Silas shook his head urgently, reaching for his sword. His dreams were becoming sketchy and strange, shrouded in confusion and darkness, teeming with the harsh, crude Mogadorian language. Their enemies were searching, still, and Silas was worried. He and One needed to move eventually—it would only be a matter of time before they were actually found._

_"Nothing," Silas replied finally, casting one last furtive look at the woods before returning inside._

_One peered at the treeline, suspicious, but followed his Cêpan into the house, unaware of the dozens of eyes fixed on their position._

* * *

"Rachel."

"Sorry. I got distracted. Flashback from One's memory in Borneo. What's up?"

"We need to have a discussion," Leroy told her steadily. Rachel raised an eyebrow, curious, and placed her cereal bowl in the sink.

"Okay?"

He gestured for her to sit and she watched him shift a little, as if he was uncomfortable, before he began with a hesitant cough.

"We need to talk about Quinn, and I believe you should…"

Rachel's attention diverted automatically at the mention of her girlfriend, Leroy's words becoming distant as she felt a quick jolt of contentment and excitement stirring in her stomach. Immediately after Quinn's…performance, Rachel—with the necessary, obligatory goodbyes to her teammates, best friend, and glee director, of course—dragged a the blonde to her empty house (willingly, eagerly, even) and promptly instigated a very long and very exhilarating make out session, which later involved Quinn, between hard breaths and teasing Rachel to no end (a polished talent of hers, unfortunately), asked if Rachel could sing to her in practice, too. Rachel, obviously, agreed to it without hesitation, earning an ecstatic grin from Quinn and provoked more infuriating teasing, leaving her quite frustrated.

Rachel now understood why there was loud laughter when someone brought up the Celibacy Club and Quinn as the longstanding leader.

"…caution is important…"

Daydreaming about the way Quinn's eyes burned like molten gold often instead of their usual, striking hazel, Rachel didn't hear that.

"Rachel?"

Seriously, her girlfriend had _amazing_ eyes. Like they weren't even real, but as if they belonged to a lovely deity's from ancient myth—

"Rachel!"

"What?"

"Did you listen to anything I just said?" Leroy questioned, impatient. "It's actually beneficial to you, you know."

"You were talking? When?"

Leroy sighed, aiming a stern glare at his protégée. "Foolish teenager. Listen to when us much wiser adults speak. Understand?"

"Well, if your speeches were less boring I would listen to you," Rachel grumbled. "What's the problem now?"

"You want them to be more interesting?" Leroy asked sarcastically. "Like straight to the point and clean-cut?"

"Exactly," Rachel beamed, pleased with an agreement, for once. "Yes."

"Okay, fine. My 'speech' will cut to the chase this time. Let's have a special talk about _you_ having sex with Quinn."

"What?" Rachel squeaked in utter surprise, flushing a dark maroon as her eyes widened, flabbergasted. "_What_?"

Leroy rolled his eyes. "We have to talk about it, Rachel. You have to hear it."

"No, we don't!" Rachel squealed loudly, covering her face with her hands in distress. "I refuse to listen to this!"

"You could hurt Quinn, do you understand that?"

Rachel peered at him through her fingers.

"Huh?" Rachel questioned, and scowled at the insinuation. "I would _never_ hurt Quinn, Leroy. What kind of stupid assumption is that?"

Her chaperone wasn't even daunted in the least with her anger.

"The _kind _of assumption that explains the problem with Lorics and humans together," Leroy answered calmly. "Now, you and Quinn being together is not a bad thing at all. In the past…well, you know the old stories but those don't exactly apply to you two…anyway, being in any relationship like this constitutes intimacy, and with Quinn being your one-and-only lover, of course you want to eventually. The main issue I'm trying to convey now is you losing control, Rachel. When you've gotten angry, you've lost control. Same idea applies here."

"How?" Rachel mumbled sullenly, wishing to evaporate or have the ground swallow her up right now.

"Don't make me spell it out. I don't want to have this talk either. But…your _strength_ against a human's body. Do you understand that?"

Looking determinedly and embarrassedly at the wall until it finally dawned on her, Rachel nodded twice, cheeks burning hot with shame.

"Good. Obviously Quinn—all humans, really—could be hurt very easily without you noticing. You don't want to take that risk, do you?"

"No," Rachel replied, eyes downcast, chagrined. Leroy sighed.

"I'm not trying to scare you. I'm just trying to warn you. But please, be careful. She still doesn't know about you, correct?"

"Yeah," Rachel lied. "Only Mike does."

"Okay," Leroy acquiesced, relieved. "I was going to go more in-depth with all of these library books but I don't need to. You can go now."

Escaping as she was bidden, Rachel gathered her things for school, and swung her backpack over her shoulders, frowning unhappily.

She hadn't even realized the actual ramifications of what she could—or would—do to Quinn, and the idea made her nearly be sick.

How could she not have noticed this before? She pummeled Karofsky to a pulp when she was angry, so…if 'distracted' by Quinn—

_Fuck._

_Of course nothing would ever be easy for me. That would just be too simple. Thanks, Universe._

Rachel ground her teeth together as she stomped into McKinley, finding her locker and throwing books inside, irrationally irate with herself. She would never allow a careless relinquish in control. How catastrophic that would be, if Leroy hadn't told her of this problem.

She could tell, by the course of their relationship, that it was certainly headed in that direction, but still…she just couldn't do that yet.

As much as she wanted to, she couldn't let anything like that happen until she could understand her own boundaries and limitations.

Training with Leroy would probably help her in the long run, like it always did, as boring and tedious as it was.

Great. She could just bludgeon the life out of a punching bag until she could be able to relax and be levelheaded in all and any situations.

_Now how to explain that to Quinn without sounding like a freak?_

"Whoa," Mike observed, appearing out of nowhere and leaning against a locker beside her own. "Someone's solving thermodynamics."

Mike paused, considering it.

"Well," he mused thoughtfully, almost to himself, "it wouldn't be too hard for you to solve…so, Rach, what's up?"

"I'm…just…confused right now. It's been a weird morning," Rachel replied, perturbed. Mike examined her expression in mild concern.

"Something I can do?"

"Take away my strength would be an excellent help, Mike."

"That would be cool," Mike gasped wistfully. "I could like…toss cars around and save everyone in Columbus like a cool superhero."

Rachel chose not to comment as Mike sunk back into reality and immediately griped about how he was entrenched in his sidekick role.

"Really, though…what's wrong?"

"You'll laugh at me. And it's Christmas time. So, if you must know, be charitable and keep your amusement to yourself," Rachel pleaded.

Mike gave a mock-salute, inching closer to hear when she beckoned with her finger, and listened intently as she whispered in his ear.

When Rachel was done speaking and draw back in mortified anxiety, Mike chewed his lip, nodding sympathetically at the point.

"That happened on _Smallville, _too_._ There really isn't a thing you can do about it, bro. You'll figure it out. Be like…slow, or whatever."

He patted her shoulder. "Don't worry. I'm sure Quinn would love absolutely anything you do to h—"

"What will I love?" Quinn queried curiously, stealing a quick kiss from Rachel and draping an arm slyly around her girlfriend's shoulders.

Mike blushed. "Uh…you'll love…anything Rachel gets you for Christmas," he lied with a nonchalant cough. "Presents…so, um…see ya!"

The pair watched him flee, both smiling lightly, before Rachel sneakily swiped Quinn's books to carry them herself. Quinn pouted.

"_I_ wanted to carry _your_ books. Hmph."

"Me first. You can carry mine tomorrow."

Rachel bumped Quinn's hip with her own on their way to Home Economics, smiling a bit. "Guess what I planned for glee today?"

"A song dedicated to me?"

"You asked for one, so of course I would have to oblige."

Quinn grinned. "What are you going to sing?"

"It's a surprise, silly," Rachel chided. "You surprised me, so fair is fair."

* * *

Rachel ended up singing _Hello, I Love You_ to Quinn—knowing that it would no doubt irritate Finn as well—to the blonde's delight and enthusiastic happiness, as Rachel made sure to emphasize the endearment, flashing contemptuous eyes at Finn and adoring ones at Quinn, to the amusement of the entire group. Mr. Schuester complimented Rachel's choice, saying it seemed to be a stretch out of her comfort zone but worked, nevertheless. Rachel had sat down in triumphant vindication, relishing the cold annoyance in Finn's posture.

At Quinn's insistence (Rachel ignored Mike's 'whpcch' noise), Rachel and Leroy would be invited for Christmas Eve at the Fabray house.

"But I'm…sort of atheist," Rachel mumbled, searching for winter boots to wear, "or…whatever you call extraterrestrial theologies."

"Doesn't matter," Quinn countered lazily, lounging on Rachel's bed. "Mom loves you. Dad accepts you. Frannie tolerates you. It's fine."

Succeeding in finding a old pair of boots, Rachel tugged them on her feet, relieved she wouldn't have to travel in sneakers again.

"Let's go outside!"

Smiling concededly, Rachel followed her excited girlfriend downstairs, waving a farewell to Leroy as Elphaba trailed after them, eagerly.

Quinn ran straight for the yard with the vigor a five year old, jumping spastically into a pile of snow with an adorably cute squeal.

Rachel contemplated if it was possible for her heart to melt into a puddle and swell to press against her ribcage at the same time.

"What are you doing?" Rachel asked, entertained. She smiled at the blonde's joy, watching as she spread her arms and moved her legs.

"Snow angel. Ever made one before, Supergirl?"

"No," Rachel admitted, truthful. Leroy usually ignored the practice of unnecessary human traditions, like holidays or activities like this.

Quinn looked scandalized, as if her answer was a crime against nature.

"Get down here!"

Rachel dropped to her knees before rolling over onto her back, extending her limbs out like a starfish. Quinn ambled to sit next to her.

"Now, move your arms up and down and then your legs left and right."

Rachel complied, pushing the snow around herself out of the way until she made a sort of decent snow angel, and stilled questioningly.

"That…really sucks," Quinn laughed. Rachel grumbled.

"It was the first snow angel I've ever made, Quinn Fabray. Sheesh."

"Oops," the blonde mocked with a shrug, clambering impishly on top of Rachel, resting her arms on the snowy ground and placing her legs on either side of Rachel's hips, and grinned at Rachel's surprise. "Okay, _maybe_ I owe you a real apology," she added, mischievous.

She leaned low, pressing a kiss to Rachel's lips before pulling away, flashing a devilish leer. "Forgive me?"

Rachel didn't answer—she was staring up in plain reverence, admiring the particular way Quinn looked at that moment. Happy, chipper, smiling that perfect, luminous beam, lips red, face flushed scarlet with the cold…it was one of the most beautiful things she'd ever seen—so far, knowing Quinn could only become prettier—and could only gawk and wonder why it took her so long to reveal the truth to Quinn.

"Rachel?" Quinn asked, eyebrows furrowing together. "Did you slip into a coma or something?"

"Maybe," Rachel chuckled, sheepish. "For a second."

"Was it my dashing and stunning good looks? They're known for their brilliance."

"Of course. Exactly. But it could've been your modest ego, too."

Quinn pretended to preen. "How suave. I'm so flattered."

Rachel laughed, and wiggled her hips, making Quinn nearly tumble sideways into the snow. Quinn huffed.

"Not funny, Berry. I could've fallen off," she observed, and snickered quietly. "You wouldn't want that, would you?"

"No," Rachel acquiesced, amused. "Neither would you."

"Nope," the blonde murmured, angling her head to kiss Rachel's cheek, lips brushing Rachel's throat, warm breath tickling Rachel's skin.

Rachel tilted her head, allowing further kisses from Quinn, a sigh escaping her mouth.

"We must look weird," Quinn commented conversationally, smiling as she looked at Rachel. "Lying on the ground and kissing like this."

"I really don't care."

"Me neither," Quinn grinned, but stilled when Rachel bit her lip, looking a bit uncertain. "What?"

"I have to tell you something…um, personal. And it's…really important. For both of us."

"Okay," Quinn countered, climbing to sit next to Rachel, cross-legged, grazing the snow with her hands. "What's wrong?"

"Um…well, in any relationship," Rachel stumbled awkwardly, flustered. "Both people want to…erm…do—"

"Each other?"

"Yes! Right. But unfortunately, for me…it's like, difficult, because I…"

"Mike said you didn't have tentacles or a tail…" Quinn interrupted, straight-faced, trying desperately not to smile. Rachel squeaked.

"Quinn!"

"It was a joke! Sorry, Rach. Go on."

"So, as I was saying," Rachel continued, crimson coloring her cheeks, looking to the sky for relief, "I'm very strong, and I might—"

"Hurt me?" Quinn guessed. Rachel nodded, blushing brightly. The ex-cheerleader couldn't help but smile in adoration.

Quinn held both of Rachel's hands. "I love you. And you love me. And I know that you'd do anything not to hurt me. So quit worrying."

"But—"

"Rachel, really. It'll be fine. And we'll get there when we get there, okay? I trust you, even though we haven't been together that long."

"We have moved quite fast," Rachel fretted, frowning. Quinn leaned over and kissed her softly, fingertips sliding against Rachel's cheek.

"Don't worry," she told her firmly. "We'll worry later, when we're both ready."

* * *

Rachel and Leroy—the latter a bit reluctantly, mind more intent on his laptops and news channels and scanning his sources for traces of Mogadorians—obediently arrived at the Fabray's around eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, clad (at Rachel's insufferable insistence and Leroy's sullen resignation) in tacky sweaters, toting sugar cookies and nervous demeanors. Leroy was shoved to the crowd of adults, met with a clap on the back from Russell and enthusiastic hug from Judy. Rachel was tugged by the wrist to Quinn, and the pair promptly spent the entire evening on the porch, huddled together and sharing hot cocoa as they watched snow recover Lima in a shiny white coat.

New Year's was something similar, but instead, it was a night with their friends from Glee, convened at Puck's.

"Quick, before Finn swarms," the blonde whispered, and kissed Rachel as the televised Times Square Ball raised to welcome 2011.

"How romantic of you," Rachel smiled lightly, fixing her party hat as Quinn made a show of patting herself on the back. "I want to do that in New York City."

"We will. Someday."

Rachel's smile was agreeable but wistful; she hadn't even considered this year, let alone the future. She shouldn't plan so far ahead and not remember the present danger and her current problems. Leroy was still worried—the lack of Mogadorian activity was troubling rather than comforting, and the dreams about One continued in earnest, along with the flashes of a countryside, presumably of Seven. Both Rachel and Leroy were baffled. The ability to glimpse into the consciousness of Seven should not be possible, and by the terrible, paralyzing headaches that followed them, Rachel assumed that their belief could only be true, and yet, they continued at a painful rate.

Rachel wondered if Seven was aspiring to send a message to her, but in reality, it was only an irritating hindrance to receive the attempt.

January marked the longest Rachel and Leroy had ever stayed in one place—five months. Rachel was still surprised by it.

She wasn't surprised, however, by the anxiety stirred uncomfortably in her stomach at the thought of a longer duration in Ohio. Jesse St. James and his infamous threat to her plagued her conscious constantly, and Rachel was learning that it more difficult to find the drive to fabricate an excuse for her absence at Regionals with the knowledge of Quinn's, and Mike's, blatant zeal to beat Vocal Adrenaline in a campaign started before her presence in Lima…but, she couldn't just ignore his demand. He—or any of her teammates, really, if they knew of her—could expose her secret to the authorities at any time. Skipping their competition could placate Jesse enough to keep quiet.

Hopefully.

Glee rehearsals were turning into longer practices and more in-depth assignments, cutting into further practice sessions with her Cêpan.

Mike was an eager participant in the meetings, shouting irritating phrases to distract Rachel from her designated task, amusing Leroy.

"Rachel, Rachel!"

Rachel kept her gaze on the bricks she was levitating, biting her tongue to stop the irate retort building in her brain.

"What do you do, what do you do, if…Quinn was in her underwear? Look! There she is!"

The bricks dropped the second Rachel's attention automatically switched to scrutinize what would've been a wonderful, marvelous sight, and Mike and Leroy's laughter made her face bloom into an unhealthy shade of burgundy as she glowered darkly at the chuckling duo.

"I hate both of you," she huffed, raising her arm again so the blocks ascended from the ground again, spinning lazily in loose circles.

Mike whistled loudly, a smirk lifting his mouth as he examined Rachel's expression, and suddenly announced: "Quinn in a bikini! No top!"

_Clump, clump, clump. Clump. Clump._

"I am going to kill you!" Rachel bellowed, sprinting after the cackling, fleeing dancer as Leroy simply shook his head with a small smile.

Sidekicks. What could you do without 'em?

* * *

When the weather was nicer, Finn organized a party, bewildering the glee club when he invited them too, along with the entire school.

"But I don't _want_ to go," Rachel complained, slowing her pace to a near-standstill on the sidewalk. Quinn laughed.

"It's only a party," the blonde insisted, tugging on Rachel's hand. "So what if it's at Finn's house? We don't _have _to talk to him, Rach."

"Everyone I hate will be there."

"Everyone you're in love with will be there. Me."

Rachel paused. "That's really unfair."

"Life's unfair," Quinn quipped, stealing a fleeting kiss as they arrived at Finn's, a loud bass beat making Rachel's ears twinge in protest.

"Hi," Finn greeted, nodding in a surprisingly amicable manner as he stepped aside to let them pass. "Drinks are in the kitchen…"

Rachel walked through the threshold without comment as Quinn threw a casual thank-you over her shoulder, trailing in Rachel's wake. Eventually, Quinn wandered elsewhere to talk with Santana and Brittany, while Mike appeared to stand with Rachel, watching their fellow students drink and drink, gulping down cans of Budweiser as if their lives depended on it and yelling to half-memorized lyrics from songs blasting from the radio, slurring their words together. Rachel pitied the state of Mrs. Hudson's tidy home when she arrived back in Lima.

Mike managed to convince Rachel to dance, and they did for awhile, amusing themselves when other partygoers clapped sardonically.

Two hours passed, with no more sightings of Quinn. Rachel bit her lip, trying not to worry too much. Being clingy was not a good idea.

She spotted Santana nodding along with a song that Brittany was dancing to, and hastened over, leaning near Santana's ear.

"Have you seen Quinn?"

"She went upstairs, I think! Looking for you!" Santana yelled over the music, and Rachel nodded in confirmation, turning around to head up the stairs.

"Shit!" Someone shouted, and Rachel turned at the noise, seeing a boy barge into view, pointing to the basement to anyone listening.

"There's a fire down there," the linebacker panted, and hustled to the kitchen, returning with a pot of water and racing back to the cellar.

Rachel didn't waste a second, and tapped Mike on the shoulder, stopping his conversation with Matt.

"There's a fire in the basement," she shouted in his ear. "Tell everyone to get outside!"

Mike nodded grimly in understanding, telling Matt to do the same as they went to urge drunken football players and cheerleaders to leave.

Rachel sprinted for the kitchen, shoving bodies out of her way and snatched a pot, filled it with water before jogging into the basement, winding around fleeing teenagers until she reached the bottom, immediately taking in the growing blaze that spread from a tipped candle onto a curtain. Flames licked across the fabric, the heat making Rachel's eyes tear. Finn was next to the fire, heaving water at the inferno, terror in his gaze as he stumbled back, at a loss. Rachel sped to Finn's side, grasping his collar and pulling his face to her level.

"Finn!" She yelled. "It's too big to stop! You have to get out! Now!"

Finn nodded obediently, frightened, and she untangled her hand from his shirt, allowing his escape to the floor above in agitated silence.

Feeling her sneakers absorbing the heat, Rachel covered her mouth as smoke gradually spread further in a black fog, dimming the room's light.

Now totally alone, Rachel examined the bright conflagration, watching it climb higher and higher, catching on the wood in the ceiling, and knew even she couldn't contain it, flame-resistant or not. She covered her nose as the torridity began to overwhelm her, and dashed up the stairs, seeing football players lumbering hurriedly out the door, followed by petrified cheerleaders and a mix of glee kids, pushing and shoving in the effort to leave. Rachel finally got outside, finding Mike standing with Santana, Matt, Puck, and Brittany, talking quietly.

The night was cold, as usual, only broken by the sweltering heat emitting from the deteriorating residence just in front of the crowd.

Finn stood by himself, despaired and upset, unable to comprehend the damage done to his home. His eyes, aghast, reflected the flickering light of the fire, reminding Rachel of her grandparents' sorrow on the night of Lorien's invasion, and their tearful, sad goodbye.

"Mike," Rachel demanded upon reaching him, "have you seen Quinn?"

"No," Mike answered worriedly. "I thought she was with you. Santana said you went upstairs to—"

Mike's words were cut off by a sound that made Rachel's heart seize up in panic: Quinn was screaming, trapped inside on the second level.

Rachel tore away from her friend before the agonizing noise could finish, ignoring the crowd's shock and horror as she clambered past the door, flames climbing on the walls and heat suppressing fresh air from the opened windows. The glass began to crack at the pressure, and Rachel bolted for the half-burned stairs as a roof support swung sideways, crashing to the disintegrating floor with an almighty boom. She scaled the stairs, jumping left and right to avoid flames, and found herself in a small hallway, one door leading to a bathroom and the other to two bedrooms. She checked the knobs, sensing the heat on the metal surface but unable to feel the actual burn on her flesh.

Rachel's stomach sank in frustration and alarm. How could she tell which room was empty or not, with an immunity to intense calidity?

What if Quinn was already _burning_?

"Quinn!" Rachel shouted desperately over the roar of the blaze, out of options, her voice breaking in distress. "Quinn, where are you?"

She batted away a fragment of wood from her as it fell, listening hard as the wallpaper began to crackle, catching fire as it wrinkled.

How much time did she have left? The house could collapse at any moment, and she was wasting seconds just thinking about it.

How much time did _Quinn_ have left?

"Quinn!"

Images of a charred body and the hideous state of what Quinn look like if Rachel couldn't save her made the brunette's stomach churn.

She could survive this, but Quinn was human and delicate and so _fragile,_ like her life could be snatched away from Rachel at any second.

She should've looked for Quinn _first_, not jumped to help that linebacker. Quinn was her main priority, _always,_ and she screwed it up.

"Quinn! Where are you?"

It was an eternity before she heard Quinn's reply, almost inaudible over the cacophonous bedlam, but Rachel's eardrums detected it.

"Here!"

Rachel turned on her heel at the sound and charged the door to Finn's bedroom with a grunt just as a section of the roof caved down behind her, confining the couple inside with another thunderous rumble from the expanding inferno. Quinn's face was smeared with ash and sweat and her eyes were blurred with astonished, fearful tears. Rachel leaped to her, wrapping her arms around the other girl's waist.

Heart relaxing somewhat as she fought her own tears, Rachel clutched Quinn tighter, briefly soothed with the evidence of Quinn's safety.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah. I was up here, looking for you, and then the door got stuck," Quinn answered, coughing, almost indiscernible over the clamor of the fire as it devoured anything and everything combustible. Rachel's gaze landed on the single window over Quinn's left shoulder, and she pulled away from her girlfriend, bottomless dread in her eyes and cold fear in her throat, struggling to remain calm for Quinn's sake.

"We have to climb out and jump!"

Quinn just nodded, acquiescing mutely, and Rachel stepped past her, fingers gripping the frame, and yanked it from the wall with a loud crunch. She tossed the sill aside, carelessly, and peered outside, seeing that no one was below and that trees would mask their escape. Rachel turned back to Quinn, and bent down slightly, one arm slinging under Quinn's knees and the other behind her shoulders, holding her girlfriend close, the other girl shaking with terror as the fire inched closer, flames whooshing in their ears. Rachel, inhaling what fresh air she could reach, bent her knees a bit and jumped. The ground neared and neared, and with what remaining force she could, Rachel swung her body sideways, landing hard on her back, Quinn sprawled on top of her, head coming to rest on Rachel's collarbone as fresh tears brimmed from Quinn's eyes, body shuddering with hysterical sobs, clutching at Rachel as if she would vanish without a warning.

Rachel's clothes felt singed, and she wiped her forehead, confused at the sight of blood on her fingertips. When did _that_ get there?

Quinn's clothes were also burned, mostly on her jeans. Rachel's fingertips grazed what skin she could reach, thankfully finding no other injuries.

"You're okay," Rachel breathed in Quinn's ear, holding the blonde closer as the girl continued to whimper. "We're both okay, Quinn."

Relief plunged deep in Rachel's heart as she repeated the consoling words, until the resonant noise of sirens made the alien freeze up.

"We have to get up now," she told Quinn, urgently, and the blonde wobbled a little, but stood up obediently, stifling her cries with her hand, gaze spooked.

"Santana drove here, right?" Rachel asked, and when Quinn nodded, inquired, "does she carry a change of clothes?"

"Yeah," Quinn replied in a raspy croak, refusing to let go of Rachel's hand, shoulders still jittery with shock. "For Cheerios…"

Rachel nodded and led the way to the cluster of parked cars, as Quinn watched two firetrucks spray down the flames before they could reach neighboring homes and saw a flurry of police cars gathering near what remained of Finn's house, officers interviewing the flock of people. Rachel found Santana's car, and wiggled her fingers, unlocking the door by means of telekinesis and searched the backseat. She stole a T-shirt, pulling her own off her body and yanking the Latina's shirt on, forcing her arms through the sleeves, and closed the door.

"Take off your sweatshirt," Rachel ordered quickly, and Quinn spluttered.

"Why?"

"We have to look like we weren't inside. Now, please?"

Quinn unzipped her sweatshirt and tossed it to the ground without a word, and Rachel took her hand again, leading her back to the mob.

Luck was not completely on Rachel's side today, and someone screamed at once: "There they are!"

Rachel grimaced as two police officers immediately approached, followed by a man with a notepad and tape recorder, looking inquisitive.

"Are you Rachel Berry?" One of them asked, looking kind. Rachel nodded.

"Yes, why?"

"A few kids over there said they saw you fly out of that window," the second officer explained, looking more skeptical than suspicious.

Rachel raised an eyebrow. "That's a bit strange, because Quinn and I were just walking around out here after the house caught fire."

"So, you're saying you _didn't_ jump from the house?" The third man queried in disbelief, and Rachel realized in unease he was a reporter.

"Does it _look_ like I was in a burning house or jumping out of a window?"

The reporter looked expectant, and pointed at her feet with his pen, clucking his tongue at the state of her clothes. "Your shoes are burned," he said simply, disdainful eyes just daring her to lie. "Not to mention you look like you've been through the ringer, Ms. Berry."

Rachel glanced down at her scalded sneakers, biting her tongue in worry as Quinn squeezed her hand, silently warning her to be careful.

"Everyone else's are too," Rachel replied coldly. "We all ran outside together. And also," she added to the police, "these people are drunk."

"So you're saying our witnesses are just liars," the reporter interjected, scribbling on his notepad. Rachel felt Quinn squeeze harder.

"Baines," the first officer cautioned, but Baines paid him no attention. Rachel stiffened at the reporter's stare, scowling irritably.

"Let me get this straight. You left the house with everyone else, and somehow, managed to slip away on a walk with…Quinn, was it? And you don't show up when the police do, but as you make your appearance again, you don't have a real alibi to prove your whereabouts."

"That's…enough questions," the second officer interrupted before Rachel could speak, sending her an apologetic smile.

Baines frowned but complied, and Rachel drew away from Quinn to call Leroy, asking for a ride. Leroy agreed at once, and hung up.

"I'll find out the truth, Ms. Berry," Baines promised loudly from his spot near the police, as she walked away with Quinn. "I always do!"

Rachel resisted the urge to flip him off, and ignoring both him and the gnawing doubt and uncertainty low in her chest.

* * *

"What happened?" Leroy asked. "It's already on the local news. No one was hurt, though, from what I've heard."

Rachel's stomach lurched.

Mike cleared his throat, meeting her eyes with a reassuring nod.

"Someone tipped a candle or something in the basement," Mike answered idly. "There were a lot of drunk people. Total accident."

Leroy nodded, looking suspiciously at Rachel but said nothing. They dropped Mike off, and upon arriving at Quinn's, Rachel opted to stay.

"Her parents are away tonight," Rachel explained. "And the fire scared her, Leroy. I don't want to leave her alone. I can't."

"Fine," Leroy allowed, but studied Rachel's reaction as he added purposefully, unkindly, "it'll be interesting to see the papers on Monday."

"Probably will be," Rachel countered, arranging her face to perfect what seemed to be her thousandth lie to Leroy since living in Lima.

He seemed to buy it as he drove off, but the sinking feeling in her chest did not justify her deceit, no matter how necessary it was.

She turned with a little sigh and followed a still silent Quinn into the house, stopping at the bathroom for a damp facecloth before traipsing to her girlfriend's room, finding her sitting like a statue on her bed, head bowed and hands linked together as if considering a prayer. Rachel wiggled out of her charred sneakers, nose wrinkling at the smell, and helped Quinn to the same, throwing on some spare pajamas that Quinn pointed to. She ambled over when Quinn was done changing, brushing Quinn's hair out of her eyes and sweeping the cloth carefully over Quinn's skin, removing the ash and grime congealed on the blonde's face, mouth turning down at the tear tracks.

They were quiet until Quinn's voice broke the silence, making Rachel's heart shiver at the sadness in Quinn's tone.

"I thought I was going to die."

"For a second there, I did too."

Quinn's gaze fixed on her, but Rachel didn't meet it, instead busying herself with the facecloth as she drew back an inch, chin quivering.

Quinn took it out of her grip, holding both of Rachel's hands, fingertips grazing Rachel's skin in a comforting manner.

"Oh, Rachel, you don't think this was _your_ fault, do you?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Rachel choked, repentant. "Shepherd Falls…my fault. At school, being nearly expelled? My fault…"

"And, what?" Quinn asked in disbelief. "I guess this fire was your fault, too? You decided to become a pyromaniac and lit Finn's house on fire to save the day? _Please_, Rachel. You didn't do anything wrong today. You _saved_ me from being burned to a crisp, remember?"

"Yeah, _today,_" Rachel mumbled, keeping still as Quinn brushed the facecloth on her skin. "What happens when the Mogadorians come?"

"You'll protect me," Quinn replied simply, standing up to kiss her and pull Rachel into a close embrace. "Like you always do."

Rachel nodded automatically, brow creasing in worry, but followed Quinn to the bed, and stretched out on her back, looking at the ceiling.

Quinn rolled over, arms placed on either side of Rachel's head, knees situated around Rachel's hips, and kissed her, more avidly than normal, not pausing for breath Rachel knew she needed more than Rachel herself, before inching back a little to look at her, eyes intent.

The atmosphere softened noticeably, previous apprehension and fear dissipating until it resembled an unpleasant memory.

Less present, but still recognizable. Rachel swore she could still feel the fire touching her, but not harming her, still hear the horrific scream from Quinn, stuck on the second floor, and the paralyzing, immobilizing terror making her body freeze, as if she could not move…

"What are you thinking?" The blonde asked suddenly.

Rachel examined her expression; gaze affectionate, lips quirked into a gentle, curious smile, just appraising her, and smiled slightly.

"Thinking about you," she admitted. "Like I always do," she parroted, shy. Quinn laughed quietly, smile warmer.

Rachel sobered a bit, eventually, looking up at Quinn, serious. "I wouldn't have known what to do if I lost you back there."

"What about the other Numbers?" Quinn questioned, more inquisitive than irked. "I mean…you could…go with one of them?"

Rachel shook her head, not bothering to hide her distaste and plain revulsion. "I can't."

Quinn laughed again, amused. "I'm not offended, Rachel. If I did, die or something," she ignored Rachel's growl, "you could be with—"

"No, really. I can't," she countered. "Lorics only fall in love once, and I'm in love with you, Quinn, so you're one in a million—_mhmmph._"

Rachel exhaled a shuddering, breathless gust when Quinn detached their lips, eyes sparkling with pure delight and adoration.

"_Really_?"

"Yes, really."

"That's so…sweet_. Gosh. _I just love you more for that."

"That _was_ the goal," Rachel joked. "Now nobody can have you."

"Of course not!" Quinn exclaimed in mock-outrage. "Why would I want someone else when I could just have you?"

Rachel blushed. Quinn chuckled gently, lowering to plant another kiss on Rachel's lips before rolling to her side, arms reaching to wind around Rachel's waist, pulling their bodies closer together. Rachel sighed, cuddling back as Quinn shifted a little until she was comfortable.

Before Quinn could reach over and turned off the lamp, Rachel snapped her fingers, bringing the room into complete darkness.

"How did you do that?"

"Magic."

"Show-off," Quinn murmured in her ear.

"You love it," Rachel replied.

"Yes. I'm afraid I do."

* * *

**That was about 6,600 (ish) words altogether. A good enough apology, yes? :) Anyway, ****I think I will have about three or four more chapters of this story left. Maybe five. I'm not exactly sure. I hope I haven't lost your reading interests yet!**

**Also, as I publish this, I am watching The Princess Bride and have the urge to Faberry-fy it in a crackish fashion.**

**I sometimes question my brain's whims. But alas, I hope you have enjoyed this chapter! Have a good day/night!**


	19. Exposed

**Title:** Four

**Author:** animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings:** Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer:** Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**This update is long overdue and I apologize for the wait. I'd like to thank teadalek, ledashann, slyhart, ridakulous, spacedsensation, FerryBerry, Omgoth, and LivinginBedlam for listening to me and letting me send them ficlets. Enjoy!**

* * *

"Something's bothering you, Rachel. What is it?"

Rache looked up from her materials—their Home Economics teacher lacked imagination, interest, and passion for educating students and also possessed a tendency to slink away from curriculum, altogether meaning they were baking cookies for the umpteenth time—to see Quinn's concerned gaze on her face, lip caught between her teeth. Rachel sighed, unease stirring a continuous whirlpool in her stomach.

"That reporter worried me," she explained quietly. "The plan to keep a low profile has spiraled a _bit_ out of control…"

First Karofsky, then Finn's party…she was running out of chances. Leroy was not deaf—sooner or later, he'd hear about Baines's threat.

Could she really deter _another_ departure, even after so many chances and compromises with her Cêpan?

The thought of fleeing Lima made her breath catch and her muscles tighten, irrationally upset. Even earlier, when Quinn was ignorant to her true identity and knowing that Leroy wanted to leave after the Karofsky debacle didn't seem as worse as it did now. Foolish, her mind scoffed. Ridiculous. Be separated from her soulmate? Never. She couldn't leave. She wouldn't. A statement from a reporter who could be…dealt with. Swallowing heavily, Rachel tried to forget the image of violence being the instinctual option that appeared into her brain.

"He hasn't published an article, though," Quinn murmured soothingly. "Not a peep about Finn's fire for three days."

Finn and Mrs. Hudson had taken refuge at Puck's, provided graciously by Mrs. Puckerman, but Finn still remained absent from school.

"That doesn't mean he isn't writing one," Rachel muttered. "Baines looks like the inquisitive type. He won't sweep this under the rug."

"What happens if something does comes up in the _Lima Gazette_?"

"I don't know," Rachel answered honestly, trepidation aching painfully in her heart, laced with suppressed fear. "I don't know."

* * *

"Is it true?"

Rachel turned slightly in her seat from her conversation with Mike, finding Kurt and Mercedes staring at her with curious eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Is it true?" Kurt repeated slowly.

Unease sparked instantly in Rachel's brain, years of practice making her wary at the first sign of mistrust among her neighbors. "Would you mind elaborating, Kurt?" She asked politely, feeling Mike's gaze flickering between her, Kurt, and Mercedes. "I don't know what—"

Mercedes lowered a newspaper into Rachel's lap, pointing to the headline. "Did you save Quinn from the fire at Finn's?"

Mike's spine straightened. Rachel's heart stuttered over a beat, but she examined the periodical, attempting to stamp out her agitation.

She should've expected it.

THE HUDSON FIRE: THE REAL STORY.

Rachel's eyes scanned the words until they resembled black scribbles on blank paper, aghast. Baines _did_ end up writing something, and somehow, the idea was beginning to stick. Students around the classroom were whispering to each other behind their hands, but with her enhanced ears, Rachel detected every theory, every assumption about the party. Her classmates pondered the validity of the article. Could Berry do that? Fly out a window? She _did_ beat up Karofsky and the entire group of Cheerios and football players that jumped her…

Coming to her rescue—Rachel knew she would never meet anyone so stubbornly loyal again—Mike forced a snide laugh.

"Really, Kurt?" Mike snickered. "_Really_?"

"What?" Kurt asked, voice rising so everyone in the vicinity would hear. "Are you denying it?"

"Of course I am," Mike exclaimed, mocking humor starting to morph into convincing hilarity. "You think Rachel jumped out a window?"

Mike gestured to his best friend, now bright red with laughter. Rachel contained her astonishment. Mike could act decently in a pinch.

"She's _tiny_, and let's face it, thin as Quinn is, there's no _fucking _way," Mike wheezed, "that they could _fly_ out from a _fire_, unharmed_._"

Rachel kept silent, looking as innocent and angelic as she could. Not many people knew a thing about her, so it seemed to work.

Mike's amusement was catching on slowly, and Rachel spied several people examining the newspaper in derision as if it was a tabloid.

_The power of suggestion_, Rachel realized. _Mike's disbelief is contagious._

"But—" Mercedes interrupted.

"Okay, guys," Mike announced to the classroom, hand posed on his stomach as if to contain his chuckling, "you'd sooner see Rachel jumping out of a window like Supergirl than you'd see an alien from my comic books. Or Karofsky in a tutu. Or better, _Beiste_ in one."

The audience burst into raucous laughter just as the teacher arrived, raising an eyebrow at the noise, and Mike settled down in his seat.

"It does look a little weird," Mercedes conceded over the racket to a sour Kurt. "Weren't they on a walk the whole time, anyway? The reporter probably interviewed someone really drunk…remember that article a few months ago about Patches involved in a drug ring?"

"Thank you," Rachel breathed quietly in Mike's ear, and he waggled his eyebrows, relieved with the results as well.

"The force is strong today with the Changster. I've got your back, Zor-El."

* * *

Rachel sat with Quinn and Mike at lunch, deflecting a few stragglers who hadn't heard Mike's show. Quinn looked anxious, but noticed the diminishing legion of questioners and relaxed. Rachel texted Leroy, and as predicted, he'd read the article and was promptly furious, believing Rachel's lie from a few nights ago and finding the article an unpleasant surprise, but was forced to comply when Rachel said that the situation was diffused and there was nothing to worry about. Rachel ignored his threats to leave Lima by shutting her phone off.

"He's so nervous all the time," Rachel muttered irritably.

"See it from his point of view," Mike mused, eyeing her sternly over his sandwich. "He's hiding Mogadore's Undesirable Number One—"

"—Number Four_—_" Rachel mumbled.

"—and he's just making sure you're okay," the dancer went on, as if Rachel hadn't spoken. "I'm on your side, but I see his point, too."

Quinn nodded in agreement.

"And with your track record here, I'm surprised he hasn't packed everything up to leave," the blonde added reasonably.

"I don't think I'll get away with this one," Rachel admitted. "He seemed so angry."

"Would you leave, if he ordered you to?" Quinn asked, tentatively, unsuccessfully attempting nonchalance. Rachel saw right through it.

"No," Rachel answered. "I can overpower him in the instance he tried force_—_unlikely, because Leroy and I aren't a particularly violent race, if you ignore my mistakes with Karofsky and Finn_—_and second, he's far too noble to leave me alone. He has to listen to _me_."

"I'm surprised he hasn't come storming into school, looking for you," Mike countered. "Making a scene would make things harder."

"He's at home, most likely," Rachel disagreed, offering a shrug. "Sulking and checking his laptops for trouble, like always."

"Not to play Devil's Advocate, but give him a little credit, okay, Rach?" Mike asked. "He's done a lot for you, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Rachel acquiesced, a bit guiltily. "But he has to realize that I won't leave Lima unless…you guys were coming with us."

Quinn smiled. Mike grinned.

"Well," Quinn announced pointedly, making a grateful, incredulous smile spread across Rachel's lips at the unspoken agreement between Mike and Quinn that they would indeed drop everything for Rachel, in the event of future trouble, "I do _love_ spontaneous roadtrips."

"And adventure," Mike winked.

"Traveling is fun," Quinn commented seriously. "Do you think Seven's anywhere near Paris?"

"Why?"

Quinn leaned a bit closer as Mike hid behind his bag, shoulders shaking with laughter. "Because," Quinn purred, eyes bright with amusement as Rachel's gaze unconsciously darted around the blonde's face, "I want to get a kiss from _you_ in the City of Love."

"But I can just kiss you anyday," Rachel replied slowly, confused.

"Well, yeah, but Paris is _romantic_. And since you want to look for the others, I think we can spare a day or two to sightsee."

The idea seemed to be too fantastic…Quinn and Mike, fleeing school and their lives to assist Rachel? She did want to find the other Numbers, yes, as foolhardy and unsafe the task was, to unite as one group instead of hiding in separate ends of the world. The Mogadorians could be anywhere, tracking them down_—_tracking _her_ down_—_but the promise of companionship along the ride was too tempting. She'd have to convince Leroy, but…she just wanted to be selfish again. She wouldn't have to leave Quinn. Quinn would come with her, if the time came. Lima was the first place she liked to call home, but she'd willingly leave it if her soulmate was leaving as well.

"I want a beret," Mike proposed inconsequentially, peeking out from behind his bag, having calmed down slightly. "Paris it is!"

"I suppose we could make a stop," Rachel allowed, pulled from her reverie, and smiled indulgently. "Paris it is."

* * *

At long last, Rachel's mildly stressful day concluded with a rigorous rehearsal. Mr. Schuester's insistence to win Regionals_—_even though they were about three months away_—_continued with upmost zeal, as if the man was feeling more pressure to beat Vocal Adrenaline than he was already. The group was taking a much-needed break, and Rachel sat in front of Quinn and beside Mike, watching the others.

Rachel's eyes drifted to the choir room door as Lauren Zizes entered, carrying a piece of paper in her hand and looking extremely bored.

"Berry," the wrestler barked, beckoning Rachel with a finger. "Figgins got this fax addressed to you, and he wants to talk. Ten minutes."

Sighing, Rachel stood up from her chair and accepted the note, waiting for Lauren to leave before turning it over and reading carefully.

The loud conversations behind her seemed to fade into a tinny, unintelligible clamor as she stared at the minuscule question on the page.

She felt goosebumps rising on her skin with each passing second that she looked at the note.

_Are you Number Four?_

The words were simple and direct, almost…_bland,_ she couldn't help but observe as comprehension registered in her brain. Like they were weightless or unimportant to her, and not actually heavy with danger and fear. The paper shook slightly in Rachel's hands, crackling noisily. They must've seen the article. Dismissed and disregarded by Lima within the span of a single morning and only remembered as a another irrelevant local story, Baines still managed to get his opinion published and catch the attention of the Mogadorians. This fax was not a legitimate question to her_—_it was just a malign, provoking taunt, telling Rachel that they knew, and they were coming, and soon.

Rachel's thoughts were everywhere at once.

They were coming for her.

How much time did she have left?

Did Leroy get this fax, too? Was he on the way to school, at this very moment?

Could they fight the Mogadorians at all?

Rachel's heart seized uncomfortably when she sensed concerned eyes on her back.

Images of Quinn's motionless body, golden hair splayed across her face, broken and beaten to a bloody pulp at the feet of the laughing Mogadorians_—_they seemed so much _taller_ now, more intimidating than they ever were before_—_made Rachel's stomach plummet in pure terror. Another vision materialized…Mike with his legs broken, arms raised uselessly to defend himself…Leroy surrounded, outnumbered and overmatched…even her teammates surfaced in her mind, likenesses fleeing from Rachel's foes. Santana and Brittany, hands clasped desperately, Puck, proud and brave, attempting to defend Mercedes while Kurt and Tina protected Artie…Finn and Matt sprinting to help…

Quinn, Mike, all of them…they would never stand a chance without Rachel. But they wouldn't be in danger if it wasn't _for_ Rachel.

She could only see one real solution, and that was running away.

Running away would take the peril away from her friends and innocent residents of Lima, too. The Mogadorians would only follow her.

Leaving Quinn behind was a drawback to that plan. Her heart sank. Quinn in Lima would be safe, but would Rachel's absence make Quinn's heart grow fonder? Or would Rachel be gone, fighting a distant war and in the process, be erased from Quinn's mind altogether?

"Rachel?"

No, Quinn's safety was more important. Leaving Quinn behind was the best option…and it was also what was best for her.

Quinn's voice invaded Rachel's thoughts and made her blink, the blonde becoming fleeting miracle in the wake of approaching calamity.

"Rachel, are you okay?" Mike queried anxiously, exchanging a loaded glance with Quinn.

The conversations ceased abruptly, the club looking curiously between Mike, Quinn, and Rachel, the latter still with her back to them.

"Rachel," Mr. Schue stated, looking concerned, "is something wrong?"

"I've, uh," Rachel answered finally, turning to look at the club at last and hiding the note behind her back, voice sounding strangled, "I've…just got to leave…now. Family issues."

"Leave?" Quinn asked sharply, the question so harsh that Rachel looked to her in plain shock before rearranging her expression to unthreatening blankness.

"Yeah, um…I'm sorry I can't stick around for our extended practice," Rachel mumbled to Mr. Schue, retrieving her backpack.

Quinn and Mike were out of their seats before Rachel could take another step, and Quinn laid a restraining hand on Rachel's arm.

"Why are you leaving?" The blonde demanded in a low whisper. "You were just fine earlier."

"Probably this," Mike proposed, snatching the fax from Rachel's hands before she could think of tightening her grip on it. "…oh, _shit_."

"Mike, don't_—_"

"Shit," Quinn mimicked, eyebrows furrowing as she read the message over Mike's shoulder and returned her gaze to Rachel's face. "You're leaving?"

"I need to speak with Leroy, first."

"He'll force you to go, anyway," Mike argued under his breath, Quinn nodding along with him. "They're just messing with you."

"Are you serious?" Rachel hissed incredulously, their amusing lunch time plans becoming a distant memory and a silly delusion, something she never should've considered. "You aren't stupid, Mike. I know that much. This message is the Mogs telling me that they know exactly where I am, and they're coming for me. Who knows when this message was sent? Who knows when they'll be on their way?"

"Rachel_—_"

"No, Quinn," Rachel interrupted coldly, looking angrier than Quinn had ever seen her. "This isn't a discussion. I'm going home to talk to Leroy, and we'll figure it out on our own. You two aren't included in our decisions," she added, a bit regretful at the look on Quinn's face.

"What are we supposed to do?" Quinn snapped, recovering herself. "Stay here?"

"And worry?" Mike inquired darkly. "We want to help, and _that's_ not a discussion, Rachel."

"What the fuck are you three whispering about over there?" Santana wondered impatiently from her chair, arms crossed over her chest.

"Yeah, the suspense is killing us," Puck remarked sarcastically.

"You'll stay here," Rachel ordered nearly inaudibly, voice as cold as ice. "Don't make this harder for me."

Casting a firm look at both of them, Rachel left the room, hearing questions begin to brew in her wake, and broke into a sprint.

* * *

She reached her house within minutes—ditching Figgins' meeting—and found Leroy standing in the kitchen, engaged in an argument with Finn Hudson.

"Look, I just want to know what the fuck is going on with this!" Finn yelled.

"Where did you get this?" Leroy shouted, frustrated. "Who sent it?"

Elphaba barked loudly at Rachel, as if pleading with her to resolve the tiff.

"What are you doing here?" Rachel demanded, momentarily ignoring her panic. "Leroy, what's—?"

"He seems to have _information_ on us," Leroy answered, coolly, rounding on her at once. "How do you explain this, Rachel?"

Rachel accepted Finn's phone from her Cêpan's hands and rewound the video message on the screen, dread in her heart. The quality was grainy and terrible, but Rachel could understand it all the same. Someone_—_Rachel didn't know who_—_managed to capture Rachel and Quinn's escape from Finn's bedroom window, disappearing into the darkness as the flames burned a bright orange, the recorder's phone shaking before the clip ended, and the loud, terrified exclamations from the mob attending the party were suddenly cut off. Rachel remembered looking ahead in a frenzy to save Quinn in the limited time she had possessed, but not side to side. Someone witnessed the rescue, and now the article was proven true. Dimly, she wondered if all of McKinley High knew yet. Maybe the entire town did by now.

"Who sent this to you?" She asked softly.

"It was a message sent to a bunch of people," Finn replied, shaking his head as he buried his hands in his pockets. "I don't know."

"Explain this to me, Rachel," Leroy ordered furiously. "Explain how you _lied _to me and jeopardized your own safety over a _girl_!"

"She's not just a girl!" Rachel shouted, irate. "You of all people must know that! So sue me and don't you _dare_ bring Quinn into this!"

"She's the reason," Leroy retorted harshly. "She's the reason you lied to me and got yourself noticed! Now you've been exposed!"

"Who cares?" Rachel bellowed. "Are you _offended,_ Leroy? Upset that I feed you a few fibs instead of dealing with you overreacting again?"

"We don't lie to each other!" Leroy roared. "First I get the _article_, and then the fax, and now…_this_? When did you get so careless?"

Rachel didn't answer. Finn seemed frozen in his spot, eyes wide. Elphaba whined lowly.

"You led them right to us," Leroy continued roughly. "I can't believe you've done this. All my lessons…you completely ignored them."

"Thanks for restating the obvious," Rachel sneered, accidentally making the lights flicker in her fury. "Got more pointers, _sir_?"

"Pack your things. We're leaving."

"No, we aren't."

Stay, leave. Stay, leave. Rachel didn't know which one to choose. Stay for Quinn or not. Leave for Quinn or not.

"Have you been listening at all, Rachel?" Leroy snapped. "The Mogadorians are coming and I _said_ we're leaving. _Now._"

"You can't make me," Rachel responded angrily, instinctually digging her heels in to stay in Lima. "Who's stronger?"

Leroy smiled bitterly, humorlessly.

"Turning on your lifelong protector," he mused mockingly. "What's next? Running to the Mogadorian front lines and joining their army?"

"You can't force me to leave," Rachel reiterated stubbornly, crossing her arms.

"So you'll _stay_ here with Quinn?" Leroy asked. "And risk her _life_ because they know where you are, and will use her to get to you?"

He nodded knowingly, satisfied, when he saw her shoulders slump at the realization.

"Life's full of hard choices. Leaving would be the best for her, don't you think?"

"That's what you did, right?" Rachel queried cattily, not quite finished with the argument, observing the way Leroy's eyes darkened. "Left your soulmate on Lorien? Was that a _hard_ decision?"

"That's not the same thing, Rachel, and you know it. The planet was attacked and I didn't have time to find him because I was watching out for you," Leroy answered her quietly, tone sharper than steel. "I lost him because I was doing my assigned job, under old orders."

Running a hand through her hair, Rachel sighed tiredly.

"I really have to run, don't I?"

"Yes."

"Do I get to tell her a goodbye?" Rachel asked, sadly, pain burning hot in her chest as she bowed her head in defeat. She should've been more prepared for this moment. Less stupid. Less foolish. Her presence in Lima was longer than that of her other homes, and it had wormed its way into her heart. She liked the small town and its feel, and finding Quinn was the icing on the cake. The months spent here were shorter than she realized. Maybe she should've spent more time with Quinn and less on being an idiot, like punching Karofsky.

Leroy nodded sympathetically, relieved to earn her agreement.

"The best we can do is run. I can have everything organized within the hour."

"Can I…um, go?" Finn asked meekly, making himself known after quite a long time as both Lorics glanced at him. "I think I sho_—_"

His query was interrupted by Rachel's phone, buzzing noisily. She set down Finn's and opened her own, terror materializing in her mind.

_911, _Mike texted. _Mogs r here._

* * *

"Hold on, hold on," Finn protested not five minutes later, arms unwillingly laden with a few weapons, looking uncomfortable. "What's happening?"

"Long story short, Finn, in case you haven't figured it out yet_—_I know you haven't_—_I'm an alien from a distant planet," Rachel told him dismissively. "We're about to run back to McKinley and save the club from the _evil_ alien species. You're the lucky one who gets to help us."

Finn's jaw dropped.

"That's how you beat up everyone at Shepherd Falls!" He exclaimed wildly. "And broke Dave's jaw!"

"Sharp as a tack, this one," Leroy commented doubtfully over his shoulder before entering the basement. Rachel nodded.

"Does Quinn know?" Finn asked aloud, and gasped. "Or did you make her fall under a freaky alien charm to eat her guts?"

Elphaba growled. Finn blanched.

"That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard," Rachel replied when she could speak, still flabbergasted. "And yes, she knows."

"Did you put her under a spell?" Finn insisted.

"No!"

"Stop squabbling," Leroy ordered sternly as he walked past the living room again. "You're like bickering children. Act your age."

"I don't think I can do this," Finn mumbled, looking a bit green. "What if our friends are already…you know…?"

Rachel's abhorrence of the quarterback softened at the sight of his anxious, jittery expression. Finn always looked proud and confident and untouchable at school, emboldened with his popularity, and with the fire and realization of the danger surrounding Rachel, he looked more like a frightened boy lately than a simple, scared teenager. Rachel assumed he had never gone through hard times in his life before.

"I think we'd know, if they did, Finn," Rachel answered. "But I know they won't kill anyone just yet."

She felt oddly calm at the moment, as if her fear was temporarily absent. She almost felt…courageous. She'd trained for this.

"Why not?"

"They want me. Our friends are…hostages. They need me to get there."

"Why?" Finn asked. "What's so special about you?"

"There isn't time to explain," Rachel replied quickly, standing up from the couch. Leroy was nearly done packing their supplies.

"I still don't think I can do this," Finn murmured. "This is just…too much to think about."

Empathetically laying a hand on his shoulder, Rachel looked down at Finn with sorrowful eyes. "I know, Finn. I get it. It's scary. But we need you right now. You and I aren't friends, but we both love Quinn. Quinn's in danger. We have to go save her, or they'll kill her without thinking twice."

"Will they?" Finn croaked, aghast. Rachel knew he was panicking just as badly as she was. Quinn was important to both of them.

"Yes. They'll kill her to hurt me, and probably everyone else in Lima if we don't fight."

She held his gaze, his eyes still alight with confusion and fear and apprehension. "You've played a lot of videogames, right?"

"Yeah?" He acknowledged, puzzled and still stunned, like he was wondering why she'd bring up videogames at a time like this.

"Think of it like a game. We're in a co-op mission. We need to secure the base and rescue the hostages."

"No extra lives," Finn acquiesced weakly.

"No extra lives," she agreed. "Look at it like a bonus, all or nothing round. You've been brave in a fictional situation, Finn…how about real life?"

* * *

_Gym, _Mike texted. _They're ykgu0_

"What?" Leroy whispered, quizzical, parking the car a great distance from McKinley. Rachel shrugged helplessly, repeating herself.

"That's all it says," Rachel answered lowly, exiting the truck and shutting the door, looking up at the night sky with slight foreboding.

"Maybe they took his phone from him," Finn suggested, awkwardly cradling his shotgun to his chest, "and that's all he had time to write?"

"It's possible," Leroy nodded, grim.

Elphaba trotted beside Leroy, hackles raised and her eyes dilated, but kept obediently silent as the trio trekked slowly toward the building. They examined the parking lot, noting the blocked exists by a couple big, black trucks, frames rattling loudly and dangerously on the hinges. Elphaba cast a wary look at it, teeth bared, and Rachel could sense the dog's uncertainty as if she was experiencing it herself.

Tall Mogadorians lingered at the doors, conversing in that harsh tongue, weapons longer than Rachel's body strapped across their chests. Her eyes studied their features under the glow of the streetlamps. Ghostly and tattooed, the Mogadorians seemed tougher and more evil in real life, and not in her borrowed memories or that brief glimpse in Westerville. Some resembled vampires more than extraterrestrials.

This day just kept more surreal.

"How do we get past them?" Rachel questioned determinedly, as they stopped to crouch behind a parked car.

"I would say these doors, but we'd get caught in a firefight that would bring them this way and we'd be outnumbered," Leroy mused.

"There's an entrance at the football field," Finn said. "The doors are on the opposite side of the school…maybe they won't see us there?"

"Lead the way," Rachel told him. "We've got your back."

* * *

"What the fuck…" Finn squeaked.

Rachel tiptoed to the whirring tool on the floor, used by the janitor, staring at the reddish tint in the soap, swirling in crimson circles. _Blood._

Dread reappeared in Rachel's heart. Would they do this to Quinn? Or worse? Or would they wait, and save the horror until Rachel arrived?

"Let's go," Leroy proposed, solemn. "We know what happened to him. There's nothing we can do now."

Nodding regretfully, Rachel trailed behind Leroy with Finn on her heels, moving a bit slower than his usual gait in order to be quiet. McKinley was empty, but the silence in the hallways seemed eerie, almost unnaturally hushed. There was no indistinct murmur from a classroom or slamming of lockers or an idle chat between friends. The corridors were vacant and dim, only lit by the dull light from the moon, and students were long gone, enjoying their night. The glee club was just unlucky, caught at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rounding a corner, the trio had just enough time to see a Mogadorian sentry and scurry in a panic back to their hiding spot.

"We can't kill him without making noise," Rachel murmured, peering intently at the figure standing guard beside the gymnasium doors.

"You can."

"How?" Rachel inquired impatiently. Leroy rolled his eyes.

"Telekinesis, your second Legacy?"

"What do you mean?"

"Use telekinesis to kill him, Rachel."

Finn and Rachel stared stupidly at Leroy, mouths agape. Rachel, because she'd never considered something like that before, and Finn, because of the knowledge that Rachel possessed his believed fictional ability of telekinesis. Finn looked dumbstruck. Rachel blinked.

"You mean…_choke_ him?"

Years of training and preparing for a confrontation with Mogadorians did not make Rachel ready that suggestion. She would've protested and asked for another way, but then recalled that these beings destroyed her home, murdered her fellow Lorics, and now threatened the best thing for her on Earth. They didn't deserve her consideration. They didn't deserve her mercy. They only deserved to be obliterated.

"Like Darth Vader," Finn breathed, amazed.

Leroy nodded.

"All you need to do is concentrate on it," the Cêpan instructed. "Close your eyes and visualize what you've learned about anatomy."

Rachel did so, at first only hearing the heartbeats of Finn and Leroy, but the longer she sat, she could hear the boisterous, strong pulse of the Mogadorian just down the corridor, and his robust breaths permeating the air. In her mind's eye, she could see the vein in the Mogadorian's throat, appearing occasionally as he exhaled. Keeping the vision in her head, Rachel raised her hand slightly, as if to touch the phantom foe with her fingertips. Her eyebrows furrowed as she felt the telltale pressure on her head, but continued without pause. The corridor air was beginning to tighten, and Rachel's hand raised a bit higher, pressure now resembling a beating drum on her temples.

"Hear that?" Finn whispered.

"Yes," Leroy answered, looking around the corner and examining the effect of Rachel's power.

Rachel, engrossed by the tension mounting within her mind, did not notice the unpleasant noises emitted from the Mogadorian's mouth. Her eyes opened slowly as she kept her focus on her assignment, but managed to hear the sickening, blustery gasps as the Mogadorian tried valiantly to breathe, presumably clutching at his throat. The air shifted again, constricting around the enemy alien as oxygen vanished from his brain, and after just a minute or two, the Mogadorian suffocated, slumped sideways, and fell to the floor with a muffled _thump._

"Clear," Leroy proclaimed, checking if anyone else heard, and Rachel allowed herself a moment to regain her composure, a bit rattled.

Leroy looked satisfied. Finn looked impressed, though still unnerved with the turn of events that occurred over the course of a one day.

"Legacies absorb your energy," he reminded her gently. "Use them sparingly. You'll need to."

The trio walked cautiously to where the Mogadorian laid on the tiles, motionless. Before their very eyes, his body solidified, becoming stonelike and brittle. Rachel lifted her foot and brought it down with a derisive, vindictive stomp, watching the statuelike corpse break into a thousand shards and scatter helter-skelter across the floor, before the pieces disintegrating into abrasive, obsidian dust, staining the linoleum. _My first kill,_ Rachel realized, somewhat delayed in her thoughts. _I don't feel any different than usual. Strange._

"Whoa," Finn murmured, bending down a little and touching the dust with his fingertips, before wiping it on his jeans with mild distaste.

Finn stood up and joined Rachel and Leroy at the doors, anxious. Elphaba Brice's ears flattened as the canine lingered at Rachel's side.

"Ready?" Leroy asked Rachel quietly, warily, as if his words were delicate and frail items, meant to be treated with care.

No. She was not ready. She would never be ready for this. But she had to be now_—_her friends were depending on her, and she had to save them from the danger brought on by her presence and her mistakes. Absently touching the necklace engraved with her name, she sighed once and nodded, forcing serenity to invade her body. She was a soldier. She had to focus and get into a combative, efficient mindset.

"Let's go," she murmured.


	20. Crisis

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

Hi. Hoping nine thousand, six hundred and fifty-five words is a suitable apology for lack of updates and won't disappoint you.

Enjoy!

* * *

Mike Chang had never really experienced fear before today.

Sure, running from furious Mogadorians in Westerville was scary and before that, learning that Rachel was an alien honorbound to save the planet with her superpowered brethern to prevent their mortal enemies from colonizing Earth and before _that_, being jumped in the woods on Halloween by a bunch of assholes from the school football team, but being trapped in McKinley High, shaking with pure terror at the face of a danger only he and Quinn understood, was downright unbearable. He knew he should've left with Rachel. Disregarding the fax was the worst mistake he could've made—he should've taken it seriously, like she had.

The afternoon had been normal enough, aside from Rachel's threat.

After Rachel left, Mr. Schue had herded them into the gym to practice and hone their Sectionals routine. As the first hour passed by, they were almost alone in the building, except for the only janitor the school employed—due to a very cheap budget and Figgins' frugalness—powerwashing the floors. It was nearing six o'clock when the lights dimmed and flickered before finally extinguishing completely for reasons unknown to them at the time. Then, in the distance, adding to their shared unease was the noise of a strangled yell before it was abruptly cut off, paralyzing them in unexpected dread and confusion. Mr. Schue had made for the door to search for the source of the noise, only to find it locked from the outside. Both exits were, keeping them inside.

Even the security lights that turned on automatically couldn't make them remotely comfortable.

At six-fifteen, after a few minutes of nervous squirming and anxious whispering and huddling close together, illuminating the vicinity with lights of their cell phones, wondering what exactly was happening and just starting to panic, a single door across the gym slammed open—nearly blasting it clean off the hinges—allowing the loud entrance of a legion of soldiers, equipped with whirring, advanced weaponry and cold, dispassionate expressions on their faces. Mike remembered shuddering uncontrollably, disgust mixing with alarm at the sight of them as the squad spread out, blocking all the exits with ease and coveying suspiciously amused airs. Their faces were so _pale, _like they had never encountered the sun once in their entire lives. They towered over the club as a few had drawn closer, heads tilting to the side in near unison, mouths curling into smiles full of black, sharpened teeth.

Mike had barely been able to open his phone and get a text to Rachel. His whole body felt numb and frozen.

"_Where is the girl_?" One Mogadorian had asked, the rough timbre of his voice resembling nails on a chalkboard.

They'd stuttered out excuses quickly, confused at the question, looking to each other for help, but to no avail.

Only Quinn and Mike knew who the Mogadorians wanted and they didn't dare speak a word.

Quinn's fingers had found Mike's and squeezed as hard as she could, fingernails cutting into his palm.

Now they all sat on the floor (against the wall, and to their upmost despair and horror, lined up execution style), keeping their eyes low (even Mr. Schuester, who'd wisely not offered resistance after Mike hurriedly shook his head not to) as the Mogadorians paced, knowing Rachel would be here any second for the risk of her friends. One of the aliens also confiscated Mike's cell phone, crushing it under his boot, and kicked the pieces back to him, chuckling quietly. Mike felt like his skin was crawling.

Suddenly, the leader paused in his steps and murmured conversation with another Mogadorian, casting a look at the doors.

He barked out an order—incomprehensible to the humans in the room—commanding his nearest fellow to investigate.

He didn't get the chance.

In mere seconds, the doors burst open with a thunderous crash, metal frames slamming backwards into the wall and creating a series of spiderweb cracks branching out in all directions. At the center stood Rachel, eyes blazing with vehement determination and composed anger, hands clenched at her sides. Mike heard Quinn gasp aloud. On Rachel's right was Leroy, intimidating and silent, shotgun raised high in his hands. On her left was _Finn_—Mike blinked, convinced that he was dreaming to see something like that—looking resolute and fearful, shotgun shaking a little. Dawdling behind Finn was Elphaba Brice, snout lifted in a small snarl.

Mike's eyes flicked away when he heard the Mogadorian leader begin to laugh.

Elphaba growled.

"Number Four," he chortled, iciness of his tone contrasting with the cordial, almost friendly address. "You're finally here."

Rachel's expression hardened but she said nothing.

Mike ignored the whispers of the club and met Finn's eyes. Finn tapped the gun barrel with his finger and mouthed 'two'.

_Two_? Mike mouthed back, puzzled.

Finn tapped the gun again and shrugged, drawing Mike's gaze to the backpack on Finn's shoulders, but he still didn't understand.

"You were very hard to find," the leader continued, distracting Mike from Finn's silent message. "Four _years_ of searching..."

Leroy looked grim, remembering the places they'd run from and hidden, moving endlessly in fear of capture.

Four years of dread. Four years of being fugitives. Four years of attempting to assimilate and for the most part, succeeding.

Rachel's knuckles were white, a match to her face, despite the simmering rage beneath her composure.

"We'll kill you," the Mogadorian went on, pointedly ignoring the astonishment and shock from the club as they glanced between Rachel and the intruders in helpless confusion and letting his teeth show in a twisted sneer, "and then Five, Six and so on..."

"Really," Rachel stated coldly, shifting her weight. Mike and Quinn, more focused on Rachel herself than the situation at hand, managed to spot the distinct bluish glow from her palms, barely visible between her fingers from their position with the others.

The leader held out an almost identical necklace to Rachel's, spelling out Three's name in a Loric symbol, eyes taunting her.

Rachel's teeth ground together in pure fury. Leroy's glare could've melted the Arctic Ice Caps.

The air was tense and uncomfortable, seeming to solidify with the effects of Rachel's temper.

"Earth _will_ fall as Lorien did—"

A sudden noise cut off his words, and all eyes flew in a flash to a Mogadorian standing near the exit. His hands had released his weapon, but the clatter of metal on the floor was drowned out by the gruesome choking sounds escaping his mouth. His eyes were widening with terror as his air supply depleted more and more, and he fell to his knees, clutching his throat. Unable to articulate a cry for help nor fight off his invisible attacker, the Mogadorian keeled over and landed sideways on the floor, body still.

Someone inhaled sharply as the corpse hardened to resemble an obsidian statue.

There was a long silence, only broken by the low humming from the Mogadorian weapons, set to not to stun, but to kill.

And then, in movements quicker than Mike could comprehend, it was pandemonium and a clash of bitter adversaries, at last.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

Deadly rounds from Mogadorian blasters fired into the air, missing their targets by inches. Finn went left at the first shot, diving straight for the club, ordered to guard them as best he could, and if he could not, was to lead them out of the school at first opportunity. Luckily, the Mogadorians seemed more focused on Rachel and Leroy and not the group of scared, petrified humans.

Finn stood near the club and handed Mike a spare handgun from his backpack, both ignoring Mr. Schuester's protests.

Elphaba followed and began pacing near the club, shielding Artie, the most vulnerable target, and Quinn, for Rachel's sake.

Leroy was on the far side of the gym, firing bullets left and right with extreme accuracy at his enemies.

Rachel, meanwhile, had jumped into the fray of hand to hand combat.

Her hands were shining a bright cobalt in the darkened room, but not to utilize Lumen's might—she was swinging her right hand into a fist, slamming it into her current opponent's cheek with the force of a stampeding bull, darkly pleased with the shattering of its jaw bone and following roar of pain it emitted. The Mogadorian reared back before charging at her, blood trickling from his lips, but Rachel was too fast for him. Her feet left the ground in a jump, carrying her body over the alien with the grace of an acrobat. She landed on the balls of her feet and spun, forcing a kick into the Mogadorian's chest, forcing him backwards onto the floor.

"What the _fuck_," Puck breathed, aghast, speaking for the first time and rousing the others from their stupors, "is she?"

"An alien," Quinn answered distractedly, offhand and truthful despite the circumstances, itching to join the fight.

"You're kidding," Mercedes insisted, more like a plea for reason, but Mike shook his head, checking the safety on his weapon.

"We have to get out of here," Kurt piped up, fearful.

"Not until Rachel says so," Quinn replied forcefully, leaving no room for further discussion or disagreement. "Or Finn. There could be other Mogadorians positioned at the doors to stop us and Rachel wouldn't have time to come and rescue us again."

"Moga-_what_?" Artie burst out. Elphaba's teeth bared.

He received no reply, to his upmost frustration. Quinn's attention was elsewhere. Rachel and the Mogadorian were sparring again, exchanging blows. Quinn's eyes snapped to the other Mogadorians approaching and ones fighting Leroy, knowing her girlfriend had little time before she was overwhelmed with enemies. Rachel was suddenly sporting a black eye, but was undeterred.

Rachel parried a punch, hand snatching out, fingers wrapping around the Mogadorian's wrist in less than a second. She yanked hard, taking advantage of his slower reflexes and breaking it behind the alien's back—the noise of the bone splintering was so audible, even in the bedlam, that several of the humans flinched—making him roar in rage as he hunkered down a little under her grasp. Incapable of moving an inch from her hold, the Mogadorian, still struggling to remove her forearm from pressing on his neck, didn't expect Rachel's hand to curl around his left ear and wrench his face hard to the right, snapping his neck in one twist.

She released the crumbling body with nothing more than a contemptuous lift of her lips, and dashed off to attack her enemies.

Nonplussed, distressed, and intimidated, her teammates could only watch, wondering where she came from and _what_ she was.

Rachel, in spite of her self-assured attitude and apparent satisfaction with her skills to fight—she had been concerned that her training was not totally adequate—she could only curb her emotions so far. Anger and anxiety swirled uncomfortably in her mind, causing her abilities to push against her control. Angry for the Mogadorian presence and arrogance, and for the murders they had no remorse for. Anxious for the safety of Quinn and Mike to a degree of looking in their direction constantly, afraid of a stray round that could shoot their way without her notice. Their only defense was Finn, and honestly, she did not have much faith in him.

_BOOM. BOOM. BOOM._

Rachel leaped and soared, effortlessly, as she evaded energy blasts, resembling a bird in flight ready to descend on a victim.

Dodging a shot, Rachel landed flat on her feet and thrust her hand forward, telekinetically returning a blast at the Mogadorians.

"Her hand has...blue?" Santana mumbled faintly, blinking to make sure she was seeing things correctly.

"She does that," Quinn nodded, eyes on Rachel and Leroy, now working together to ambush a trio of Mogadorians.

How much longer would this take? How many soldiers did the Mogadorians have as backup?

Quinn's worry deepened.

"Let's move to the doors," Finn suggested, drawing his eyes away from the melee. "They've been distracted enough."

"I'll cover the back," Mike countered. Finn nodded in agreement.

As carefully and covertly as possible, Finn led his teammates to stand in a demolished doorway, ready to flee when they could.

"We can't leave yet, though," Mike announced, to the dismay of those surrounding him. "Rachel might need us."

"She's doing fine on her own," Kurt pointed out uneasily.

"We'll get hurt if we stay," Santana agreed, sounding agitated. Brittany nodded, biting her lip.

Rachel was currently wrestling on the floor with a Mogadorian, barely keeping herself from being pinned down by its weight. Leroy, further away from his charge, was swinging his sword sideways—embedded with gleaming Loric symbols on the hilt—in a wide arc, slicing the throat of one of his opponents with ease. Rachel snapped her foe's neck and sprinted to fight yet another Mogadorian.

"She's doing well now," Quinn snapped. "What happens when she isn't? Be grateful that she saved your _lives_ and stick around."

Taken aback, her friends said nothing.

"That applies to all of you," the blonde continued coldly, plain disgust on her face. "Don't be cowards. You can help, too."

"How?" Mercedes questioned incredulously. "We're not as strong as her, Quinn. This is just...crazy. It's too much."

"You don't need to be," Mike chimed in, irritated. "Grow a pair."

Mercedes's furious retort was drowned out by another reverberating rumble, coming from the opposite end of the school.

"What was that?" Finn inquired to no one in particular.

Elphaba growled again, louder, nails clicking on the floor as she ambled to the door, eyes on the hallway shrouded in darkness.

Another rumble, a lot closer this time. The club exchanged glances. Rachel and Leroy, however, did not have time to look.

"Do you hear that?" Mike muttered, peering curiously into the corridor.

A row of lockers, only a hallway or two away now, crashed in succession, startling them further. Unnerved, the humans drew closer together as Elphaba's snarling became deeper and hoarser, as if drawing the noise from her belly. There was a third, distinct crash, but this time, it was accompanied by an unexpected bloodcurdling, metallic scream that sent shivers down their spines.

"We should..." Quinn trailed off insistently, hand raised to tug on Mike's shoulder.

And then, as Elphaba Brice begin to shake and thrash on the floor, limbs quivering with some unknown malady, alarming Quinn and Mike, the noise of racing feet—ones that _had _to be of gargantuan size, with the stomping ruckus they were making—preceded the appearance of what Quinn could and would only describe later as a _beast._

Running straight for them with jaws as wider than five feet, still emitting that horrible, immobilizing shriek, and with teeth as long as a man's arm was quite simply, a monster. It looked similar to some ancient dinosaur, resurrected from time to wreak absolute havoc. Its body was reptilian and massive, emerald scales encased on its hide. Powerful limbs forced its path to quicken, and a tail laden with spikes smashed against the lockers in its wake. Yellow eyes, unblinking, stared at them in malevolence as it neared.

Elphaba was still spasming on the floor and their time to dawdle was running out.

"R..._Rac_—RACHEL! RACHEL!" Mike bellowed in utter panic and whirled around, breaking the spell of shock. "LOOK OUT!"

* * *

Rachel wiggled her right hand quickly, shaking out the stiffness. Beating up Mogadorians was just as hard as she expected. They just kept coming without pause. She hoped to gauge the actual number of soldiers on call, but it was impossible. She had no time to think. She could only fight and keep at it. A second wasted was the difference between living or dying. And she _had_ to live.

Fortunately, she and her Cêpan had managed to stall the Mogadorians from progressing to her vulnerability—Quinn.

Ten Mogadorians had been executed at her hand tonight, but she can't pinpoint each kill. They all blurred together.

Should she care? Mogadorians were heartless beings, free of conscious and guilt. So why did she feel a shred of _shame_?

They deserved to die, didn't they? She was saving Earth from being destroyed and rightfully removing evil from her new home.

Still, reluctance influenced the force behind her hands and the strength in her attacks.

Mike's voice interrupted her thoughts and she looked away from a choking Mogadorian, his own sword lodged near his lungs.

"Fuck," Rachel blurted out before she could stop herself.

Her best friend, her girlfriend, and her teammates were barreling toward her as a reptilian creature appeared abruptly in the gym, maw open. It vocalized an ear-splitting, dissonant clamor that made Rachel's heart drop into her stomach, momentarily stunned.

The beast reared back and snapped its teeth, gaze on Rachel, beating its tail like a drum on the floor in challenge.

Rachel forced herself to concentrate. Leroy was handling the Mogadorians well enough. He could switch to his shotgun.

She hadn't moved at all, not even as everyone sprinted past her to the safety of another threshold, expressions terrified.

Leroy continued to gun down any approaching Mogadorians, trusting her to take care of this problem with a mere nod.

_Now._

_Now._

Her mind screamed for her to run. Run and get rid of the threat. This monster would surely kill everyone in its path.

_Which Legacy do I use? _

_Which one? _

_Which one?_

Rachel inhaled a deep breath and bent down slightly, hands on the floor, as if she was a sprinter in a race, scrutinizing the scene.

The beast was under the basketball hoop, lowered into a crouch. She could run as fast as she could, jump on the hoop and then break the supports. That would bring the backboard down, and once free of its position, it would send the beast into the wall.

She leaped forward, running headlong at the beast with absolutely no backup plan, a brain full of fear, and a racing heart.

Before she could reach the creature—and it was certainly expecting her, as if the unyielding gaze and thunderous roar was any indication—she skidded to a stop. _Another_ beast, more canine-like in appearance and somewhat familiar, had blocked Rachel's route and jumped on the reptilian monster, jaws clamping down on its neck like a vise. They fought and struggled, and the second one, smaller and less durable compared to the other, broke away and charged through a wall, ensuring the first one to follow it.

McKinley High was surely taking a beating.

Rachel spun on her heel and returned to warring with Mogadorians, to Leroy's obvious relief.

A Mogadorian, at least seven feet tall, was her newest adversary and flashed her a smirk, abandoning his gun in favor of his fists.

Rachel's brief confidence flew out the window when the Mogadorian snatched her up like she was a rag doll and hurled her headfirst at the bleachers. Rachel felt her temple smack against the metal surface as her body made a Rachel-sized dent in the frame. A curse escaped her lips and she squeezed her eyes shut, blinding pain pounding in her forehead. Temporarily stunned, she tried to get up, but the Mogadorian's hands grabbed her again, flinging her across the gym again, where a wall became her obstacle.

"Shit," Rachel gasped, blinking and numbly feeling along her skull. Drawing her hand back, she saw blood coating her fingertips.

The Mogadorian brute was laughing at her, the sound oddly distorted in her bewilderment, and started in her direction again.

She vaguely recalled Leroy's words during a practice session. Mogadorians has a penchant for quick adaptation. They were a warlike species. They knew how to change plans and create better ones, formulating strategies easily because it was their true nature. Obviously, one had seen Rachel and Leroy's plan of attack—ambush and perform a quick death, as a formidable team. The tactics of the Mogadorians must've changed to challenge the Lorics. Incapacitation, separation, and persistence would ruin them.

Rachel realized this wasn't a new tactic. This was how they slaughtered One, Two, and Three. And now it was her turn.

Eyes crossed, Rachel didn't have time to move from the grip lifting her by the shirt collar into the air, feet dangling off the ground.

"Number Four," it proclaimed in a condescending rasp, black eyes alight with venom. "We meet at last."

Rachel's nails scratched uselessly at the Mogadorian's exposed hands, still disoriented and in pain from her injury.

Her eyebrows furrowed in alarm as her Legacies failed. Lumen would not light up her palms. Telekinesis did not occur.

The Mogadorian seemed to sense her panic. Its mouth spread in a smile, jagged teeth jutting hideously out of its gums.

"All alone, now," it commented, almost in delight, and grinned at her confusion, jerking his head for her to look behind him.

"Rachel!" Leroy shouted, sprinting her direction, but she could not verbalize a reply. She figured out the crux of the plan but could not do anything except thrash in the Mogadorian's hold, desperate to escape and stop them before something terrible happened.

Leroy was only ten feet away from Rachel but he would never reach her.

"Leroy!" Rachel screamed, throat blistering with the effort to be heard. "_NO!_"

* * *

Far too fast for her Cêpan to evade and unendingly terrible for Rachel to bear and witness, a Mogadorian darted into Leroy's path like a bullet form a gun and swung his sword into Leroy's abdomen, blade covered in blood when he pulled it back. Leroy sunk to the ground, shirt coloring a nasty shade of crimson, and his agonized gasps could be heard by the group of humans in the distance, all frozen in absolute shock. Rachel kicked and struggled like a madwoman, clawing at her jailer until he let go, flesh littered with scratches. She landed hard, waves of pain shooting up her limbs, but sprinted for the Mogadorian that stabbed Leroy, tackling him to the floor. Swiping a dagger from the alien's jacket, she struck down, lodging the knife in its throat, uncaring of the blood splattering on her face. She pushed the knife deeper, teeth clenched in a ferocious grimace, anger boiling hot in her brain.

Screw regret. Screw remorse. Mogadorians always deserved nothing less than death. Painfully so.

Her necklace warmed against her skin, warning her that Leroy wasn't going to live much longer.

Rachel wanted to tear anything and everything in sight to pieces.

A second Mogadorian tore her away from the corpse, and Rachel spun in his grasp, dislocating the alien's arm and then snapping his neck.

The Mogadorian she clawed rushed at her again, expression furious, but her rage and hatred and misery mixed together, prompting not a reaction of disorganized haste, but one of tremulous control. Her Legacies, emboldened by the sheer force of her emotions, returned at full power. The Mogadorian crumpled to the floor at once, shaking and inhaling for breath. Rachel's features stretched into a look of savage mirth, imposing a heart attack on her latest victim until he could take no more and perished.

She whirled around just as a new calvary of soldiers arrived and sent each and every energy blast back from where it came.

Body after body fell to the floor, disintegrating and leaving nothing but lifelike sculptures of deepest onyx.

Rachel made sure to stomp on each one and scatter the fragments, watching them deteriorate into dust.

She could decimate all of them if she wanted to. She could drag the roof down by telekinesis and crush them all in one sweep.

Where was the beast? She could take that on, too.

Quinn's eyes, always watching, blinked back tears as Mike looked like he was restraining the urge to shake some sense into his best friend. This wasn't Rachel at all. This was an unpleasant product of her girlfriend's grief for her guardian, Leroy, and Number Four's vindictiveness for Mogadorians. This was _wrong._ This reckless, icy person—this thing, even, currently punching a Mogadorian so hard, he flew into a wall and was crushed beneath the rubble—was a stranger. It was as if Rachel's hold on her personality, heart, and soul had disappeared and she had tumbled into darkness, leaving behind a shell meant only for destruction.

"_Rachel_..."

Number Four stiffened, spine straight as a board, and curled her fingers into a fist, Mogadorian blood smeared on her palms. She looked over her shoulder, like she'd forgotten the source of her fit of madness, and Quinn saw her face crumple in pain as she turned around completely, glint of grief in her eyes. She walked slowly, sneakers dragging against the floor, and returned to Leroy.

Number Four flinched at the wound, taking in the blood and severity of the injury and burst into tears.

Leroy wasn't supposed to get hurt. He wasn't supposed to do this—be fragile and weak and defeated. He was strong. Always was. He couldn't let this happen. _She_ couldn't let this happen. He had to be around whenever she needed him to tell her what to do.

Quinn stepped away from the silent club, hesitating at the sight of her Rachel's reappearance, the brief bout of madness gone, but started walking to where her girlfriend was kneeling.

"You can't die, Leroy," Rachel cried, holding one of his hands. "Please. I can't do this without you. I can't."

"Find the others," Leroy told her, breaths ragged. "You're stronger together."

Even his voice sounded different to her—it was feeble, quite unlike the vigorous cadence he used to possess.

Rachel shook her head violently, lips pressed tightly together, eyes blurry.

"I can't...you _can't_ do this. I won't let you. You can't die," she choked, throat closing up. "I can fix it! Isn't there _something_ in the Chest...?"

"It wouldn't work," he murmured, having trouble speaking now. "It's just my time, Rachel."

"No, it's not," She insisted, desperate. "You've never let me down, Leroy. Please don't do it now."

He smiled sadly, squeezing her hand. She blanched at the shuddering inhalation of breath he had to take in order to talk.

"I'm so proud of you," he said sincerely, almost inaudible. "You've come so far from that scared seven year old."

His laugh sounded more like a cough. Quinn finally reached Rachel and knelt behind her, rubbing a soothing hand on her back.

"What am I supposed to do?" Rachel questioned harshly, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "We'll never be able to stop them all."

"Together, you can," he replied slowly. "Find the others and their Chests. You can save Earth from Lorien's fate, Rachel."

He smiled a little when she granted him a teary, reluctant nod of acquiescent, chin trembling.

She stifled a sob, feeling her necklace burning on her collarbone at the same time a heartbeat slowed to a stop, silenced forever.

She never thought she was would lose Leroy. The deaths of those preceding her and their individual Cêpans seemed to be so extraordinary to her, like it could and would never happen to the pair of them. She had always believed that they were exempt, that they would be able to run forever and never be caught. Leroy was her link to Lorien. Without him, she was lost and alone.

How long could she last without him at her side?

She couldn't last a week without his guidance. She'd be killed for sure.

Leroy's hand in hers went slack, and Rachel released it as Quinn's arms wrapped around her middle, chin on her shoulder.

Quinn held her close as she cried over Leroy's body, shaking with sorrow. She closed his eyes with her fingertips and retrieved his necklace and sword, holding them in her lap. Leroy's backpack was still on Finn's shoulders, holding the Chest safely inside. Their clothes and official documents were left behind at the house, to be grabbed later because of their lesser importance.

"What should we do?" The blonde murmured, eyes lifting to look at Mike and the others, all looking distressed and sympathetic.

The police would be coming soon, unless they had been indisposed or involved elsewhere.

"I know what you can do," someone offered, surprising the occupants of the razed gymnasium, but there was no one in sight.

"Who's there?" Rachel demanded quickly, palms shining with new vigor, handing Quinn both of Leroy's possessions.

A chuckle permeated the air, amused with her. "A friend. A comrade, of sorts."

The glee club eyed the room suspiciously, looking side to side for the speaker.

Rachel and Quinn stood up, the former looking both suspicious and uncertain as she peered around for the source of the voice.

There was another laugh, but this time, it preceded a swirling of color in the darkened room, emergency lights doing little to help.

Bluish light—identical to Rachel's Lumen—undulated like a small tornado, light trails revealing a shadowy figure stepping into view.

Vibrant green eyes, a cordial smile, and a handsome face were the first features that Rachel noticed, taking in the Loric approaching her. He was tall and strong and blonde and very familiar to her, but she could not put her finger on it. This was one of the times she wished all of her memories were intact. Knowing him and meeting him for the first time were two different things.

"Who are you?" She asked, feeling somewhat inferior. She was upset and weak and must've looked hopeless compared to this boy.

"Number Six, Sam Evans, or John Smith, if you like," he drawled, sending her a grin as he examined the wreckage. "Made a mess here, haven't you, Four?"

She released a breath. Six. Six. Another Number had come for her. Come to help, but just a little too late.

Rachel resisted an absurd temptation to smile, calmer in the presence of another teenager just like her. "It wasn't intentional."

"Never is," he agreed. "I blew up a gas station once, dodging some Mogs...accidentally, of course," he added offhandedly.

He surveyed the vicinity, studying the club hovering uneasily by the doors, Quinn lingering behind Rachel, and Leroy's body.

"Mogs got him too, huh?" Six noted, brushing past Rachel and tilting his head slightly, looking down at Leroy with apathetic eyes. "They got mine just a few months ago. Katarina...that was her name. Shot her in West Virgina. I ran away before they got me."

His eyes hardened for a moment, editing and keeping information to himself, and he raised his hand, and glanced back at Rachel.

"Best way to honor them is cremation," Six informed her. "Burn the bodies and bury 'em on Lorien, where they really belong."

Rachel swallowed. Leroy already looked so...empty. His skin was as cold as ice and congealing blood was staining the floor in a dark puddle. Six was right. Earth wasn't their true home. Rachel couldn't remember funeral customs or traditions, but bringing Leroy and Katarina's remains—if Rachel and Six ever made it to Lorien—sounded like a good idea. Leroy would be with Hiram again.

She leaned down so she could graze his cheek with her hand, touch light as a feather, and mumbled an apology before she stood up.

"Okay," she said tersely, steeling herself. Quinn's fingers intwined with her own and she held them fast, seeking Quinn's comfort.

Six snapped his fingers.

A spark jumped from them like a lighter catching friction, setting the corpse alight. Rachel pursed her lips so she wouldn't cry again—showing more weakness than she already was, bruises and scrapes and blood in all in front of Six made her antsy—and watched in silence. Mike wandered over, standing on Rachel's other side, looking sad. Finn was behind him, not looking but Rachel could tell her was sorry for her. The others lingered in the background, unsure of what to do but wore pitying expressions.

Six's right hand lifted once the burning had subsided, raising the ashes into the air and leaving them to float, before retrieving his backpack and digging through it. He shot a slightly repentant frown at Rachel and levitated the ashes into an empty coffee can.

"That's all I have," he elaborated as he handed it to her, eyes probing her face for assent. "Urns aren't usually in my inventory."

"It's all right," Rachel replied. "Thank you."

"And I do want to apologize," Six added. "I couldn't get here in time because I was scouting the area. Half of your police force are on a retreat and the ones left behind were unconscious at the station. I suspect the Mogs got to them to prevent interference."

Rachel nodded, knowing Mr. Karofsky would be here, guns blazing, if he was in Lima.

"I think the Mogs have at least one more brigade," Six mused as Rachel passed the can to Finn to put away. "It's a pattern."

"Pattern?" Mike questioned.

Six's gaze became edgy, not wanting to acknowledge Mike's query. "Made friends?" He inquired of Rachel, not answering Mike.

"Yes," Rachel confirmed brusquely. "You can trust them. I do."

"All of them?" Six queried, clearly insinuating the opposite. The club and Mr. Schue, still standing together, looked uncertain.

"Yes," Rachel repeated. "They wouldn't expose us."

Six's smile was insolent. Rachel didn't like it. "Sure. But yes, the pattern. The Mogadorians travel in packs. At least thirty per crew. I've watched them. And then, maybe once every two weeks, they'll contact each other, checking in and reporting intelligence."

"So we have the last legs of this squad and a two week headstart," Rachel remarked. Six grinned.

"I like the way you think."

Quinn exchanged an annoyed look with Mike, who rolled his eyes. Six was more arrogant than Rachel could ever be.

Rachel, meanwhile, reluctantly admired Six's spirit but didn't appreciate his contempt of her friends. She chose not to dwell on it.

"It's our turn to take the offensive this time," Rachel resolved, to Six's amusement and enthusiastic agreement. "We need to get my friends out safely and all the Mogadorians been doing is trapping us. They trapped everyone on Lorien, they ambushed One, Two, and Three, and they split Leroy and I up so they could kill us both," Rachel continued, determination returning to her features, not seen since her entrance to McKinley, just over a an hour ago. "Lorics are a gentle species, right? We don't like war or conflict, but fight like hell when we're forced into it. You and I need to break that tradition. They should be scared of us now."

Her words meant more than just that night; she was speaking for the future. For their forthcoming plans to save humanity.

"Let's do it," Six affirmed without hesitation.

* * *

"The gym is completely destroyed," Rachel heard Artie murmur to Tina. "I wonder how Principal Figgins will react."

"Probably blame Asian vampires again," Tina grumbled, pushing his wheelchair around a fallen locker. "That guy is crazy."

"So," Six began conversationally, pushing a few buttons on his gun and making it light up. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen," Rachel answered, leading the club of humans through a corridor full of debris. Quinn and Mike trailed behind her.

"Me too," Six said. "What are your Legacies?"

"Lumen and resistance to flames. I don't know the last one yet."

"I've got invisibility, elemental manipulation, and Sensior."

Sensior was a Loric term for empathetic abilities, or the capacity to perceive the emotions of those around you.

Rachel looked impressed, quelling her jealousy. His powers were a lot better than hers. "Sensior? That must be hard on you."

"It's not too bad," Six allowed. "The only downside is—"

"Holy shit!" Mike yelled unexpectedly as three Mogadorians crashed into view, bullet flying from his handgun and hitting one in the forehead, killing it instantly. Six dashed at once to the other two as Rachel turned around to stare at Mike in open surprise.

"What?" He questioned defensively, feeling eyes on him from all sides and turning red. "I play a lot of Xbox."

Rachel just smiled and glanced back at Six, ready to help, but he did not need it.

Six's feet left the ground as he jumped over the two remaining Mogs, body vanishing in a flash of brightest blue. The aliens looked around wildly, searching in vain for their target, but he appeared behind one, sword sinking into its chest with the precision of a gladiator. The Mogadorian roared in pain but was silenced, leaving behind a dusty likeness of brittle stone. The last Mogadorian dodged Six's swings with a sword, energy blasts leaving gaping dents in nearby lockers. Six dissolved again but materialized in less than a second, sword screeching against a locker as it curved sideways, cutting off the Mogadorian's head in one clean sweep.

The fossilizing head rolled in the direction of Rachel and her friends and Mercedes squirmed, next to Kurt.

"I might be sick," she mumbled under her breath, still not used to seeing such an image. None of them were.

Six brought his foot down on the skull, pointedly, breaking it in black shards that collapsed into sand. Mercedes looked a bit green.

Rachel and Six swept past the piles of dust and began to lead the group again. Six stopped her, however, after only a minute.

"Listen," he murmured, superior ears giving him and Rachel an alert before those standing behind them. "Someone's coming."

Rachel wiped her forehead, not surprised to find blood on her forearm when she lowered it, eyes fixed on the end of the hallway.

They had to be almost done. Six's scouting must be right. Rachel was afraid that she would lose it if she had to fight another crew.

Finally, it was only one Mogadorian that came into view. The leader, Rachel recognized with a harsh rush of anger.

He flashed them a cavalier grin, teeth and taunting gaze making him eerily resemble a skeleton, reanimated to instill panic.

"You can't stop us," he told them in that distinctive rasp, hand lowering to his belt. "This is only the beginning of the end."

Rachel's eyes widened in horror as she took a closer look at his appearance.

Vials of crimson were attached to his belt, matching the red gleam in his weapon at his hip. His free hand held a small device.

Rachel's stomach plummeted, knowing exactly what he was planning to do and what she had to do to prevent it.

Six sucked in a breath, at a loss. They couldn't run. They couldn't escape. There wasn't even time to think.

Rachel ground her teeth in the few seconds she had left to reflect on her options, and pounced.

She would only remember a roar of noise and a scream of her name, but it was too late to stop and reconsider.

An explosion of color and sound burst in front of her eyes as her hands made contact with the Mogadorian's chest, knocking him—not him anymore, but the crumbling remains of his figure—to the floor. Fire clung to her body like a second skin, burning hot and pressing down heavily on her flesh. Flames shot left and right and center, hurdling straight for the exposed assembly behind her with nowhere else to go. A veneer of flowing water—Six's doing, no doubt—was keeping them safe, but only just. Heated air was escaping through the gaps, and Six's arms were shaking with effort. Water rippled, almost becoming a wave, but the Mogadorian fire was relentless.

Rachel was engulfed in an inferno, but her fingers twitched in the conflagration surrounding her, scraping on the floor, struggling to concentrate.

Someone was screaming themselves hoarse over the clamor of the fire—or was it a bomb?—and Rachel could barely hear it.

Slowly, the flames battling Six's wall of water receded, being pulled back unwillingly in the opposite direction by an unseen force. The blaze undulated and surged angrily, swelling back and forth, as if insistent to reach a row of victims but unable to. Rachel's fingers made another scraping motion, flames finally obeying her. Above their heads, the sprinklers turned on at last, pelting the unnatural fire with an unyielding rush of water. The fire refused to go out for quite awhile but eventually puttered out, leaving chaos in its wake.

Rachel was still motionless on the floor when they rushed to her side, and Six reached down to pull her up.

"_Fuck__!__" _He growled, a burn on his palm. It was just his _luck_ that he was an elemental manipulator but couldn't touch any calefaction but his own. The sprinklers shut off after a minute, once the danger was gone.

"Is she okay?" Quinn squeaked frantically, Mike's arms holding her back.

"She was just on fire, Quinn," Puck bit out, face white as a sheet. "I don't think she's _okay_."

"Shut the fuck up, dude," Mike snapped. "You don't know shit."

Rachel managed a low groan.

"Rachel?" Quinn asked in a screech. "Rachel?"

"Four...?" Six muttered.

Rachel clambered up onto her knees, brushing her singed hair from her eyes. Aside from the blackened soot and grime and caked blood on her face, she was unharmed. Her clothes, however, were cauterized and dirty. She coughed, a grimace on her dry lips.

"I will never pick up smoking as a relaxant," she coughed. "Smoke in one's lungs isn't a nice feeling at all..."

"How the hell are you _alive,_ Rachel?" Mr. Schuester burst out, speaking for the first time. Those around him nodded in confusion.

"Nobody listens," she grumbled, rising to her feet. "Flame resistance is one of my abilities. I _just_ said that. Fire doesn't hurt me."

Mr. Schue sighed in defeat. He really shouldn't have been surprised. Rachel kept stomping over all of his logic.

"Could've repeated that," Finn mumbled, to everyone's agreement. "I thought we'd see your skin being flayed or something."

"Gross," Kurt offered in disapproval. Rachel rolled her eyes, stretching out the strain from her limbs. Mike held Quinn around the middle, keeping her from running to Rachel. He didn't need Quinn to get third degree burns from hugging her roasted girlfriend.

"Let's move on," Six proposed.

* * *

They were at the entrance to McKinley, just at the exits, when Rachel heard it. A low, pained whine, sounding very close.

_Four?_

"Stop," Rachel ordered, when Finn had his hand on the doorknob. The huddle turned to look at her in question, longing to leave.

"Why?" Quinn asked. "Rachel, some people could be here any second. They'll catch us and ask what happened."

"I know. But I heard—"

_Four?_

"Did you hear that?" Rachel inquired of the assembly at large. "That voice?"

"There isn't a voice, Rach," Mike answered. "And no more Mogs, I think. It's just us."

_Four, there's one more beast. Rachel, can you hear me?_

"A what?" Rachel queried to it, drawing uncertain looks to her face. "Sorry, but I hear this...somebody's been talking to me."

"Rachel," Kurt began awkwardly, "um...you might have a concussion and more injuries than you think...a hospital would—"

"Don't talk," she commanded, holding up a finger to silence the boy. "I heard something. I'm sure of it."

Six stiffened at the noise of a whine. "I heard _that._"

"That sounds like—hey, Rachel!" Mike blurted out. "Elphaba! That might be her!"

"Yeah, your dog," Finn added in sudden recognition. "She was there when that thing came at us...I haven't seen her since."

"Neither have I," Tina piped up. "She was gone when I looked and then that _other_ thing attacked the first one..."

"What did it look like?" Six asked distractedly, listening hard for a third whine. "The second one that showed up."

"Big teeth," Artie proclaimed. Matt nodded.

"It had fur. Like...the fur was really gold," he tacked on, eyebrows furrowed.

"I saw a tail," Brittany remarked from Santana's left. "It was weird."

Six peered through an opened office door, frowning at the trail of blood leading into it, and went inside for a moment.

"Here's the culprit," he announced quietly, cradling Elphaba Brice in his arms. Rachel rushed over in a panic.

"Elphaba," she breathed, staring at the blood on Elphaba's fur and whines escaping the dog's mouth. "What happened to you?"

"This isn't a dog," Six told Rachel, lowering the whimpering animal into Brittany's outstretched arms. "It's a Chimera."

"A what?" Rachel asked, puzzled, familiar with the word but not entirely sure.

"It came with you from Lorien," Six explained. "I'd guess you've always had some sort of pet in every place you've lived in, correct? It looks after you. I think you and Leroy were the only ones that have one. Maybe Eight does. I'm not positive."

Rachel was silent. In Florida, it was a little gecko that lived in the kitchen. In California, it was a seagull with a nest above the front door. In Maine, it was a friendly raccoon, asking for scraps that hung around in the backyard. Had it really been Elphaba all this time? She stared at the glassy eyed dog in Brittany's gentle grasp. Had Elphaba transformed into the canine-like defender?

_Rachel._

_Elphaba? _Rachel tried uneasily, mind reaching out to create a connection. The dog blinked once in acknowledgement.

_Yes._

More unsettled than shocked, Rachel relaxed some. This must be her final Legacy. Animal telepathy. That would explain the odd sense of understanding Elphaba's feelings when she arrived in Lima and how it continued, the longer she lived here. She just hadn't paid attention to it.

_You said...that was you talking about another beast,_ Rachel thought. _Right?_

_I killed the first one,_ Elphaba told her, voice sounding exhausted. _The Mogadorians have two. The second one is approaching us._

"Guys, we have to leave now," Rachel said suddenly, firmly. "The Mogadorians have another beast and it's coming now."

Six's eyes widened, hearing the metallic scream—the humans blanched—and noise of destruction. "What should we do?"

Rachel paused, thinking it over.

"You have elemental abilities, Six. Does that include conjuring a storm?"

* * *

Left all alone in the front hallway in her demolished high school with terror almost overwhelming her and a monster racing through the corridors in search of prey, Rachel took a deep, soothing breath. Leroy, she knew, would have faith in her. He would tell her to believe in her powers. She closed her eyes for a second, extending her consciousness to Elphaba's, who let her in. Through Elphaba's mind, she could study her friends. Elphaba was still in Brittany's arms, feeling the blonde's hands petting her ear. Santana was beside Brittany, words sounding like gibberish in Elphaba's ears. Ahead of the two girls was Quinn, Mike, and Six, standing in the center of the football field as Six eyed the sky. On the far right was Finn and the glee club, conversing quietly.

_Be careful,_ Elphaba thought worriedly. Rachel closed the connection without reply.

Her heart thumped against her ribs, betraying her confidence. This beast had to be stronger than a whole crew of Mogadorians.

This day was probably the worst she'd ever had. All Rachel wanted to do was sleep.

She thought of her first interaction with Quinn. Did that really happen only a few months ago? It seemed like a lifetime away, here, in this very hallway, when Quinn snapped at Karofsky to leave Rachel alone after he'd throwing a grape slushie in her face.

Rachel stared at the row of lockers—one being hers—as the beast stomped into view, low growls rumbling in her ears.

Was this the end of her story? Would things end here, where they had all began, before things went to hell?

Rachel couldn't help but chuckle at the irony.

_"Hi," the girl grinned charmingly. "I'm Quinn. Sorry about that guy. He's an oaf."_

_"That's okay," Rachel stammered, feeling her face burn slightly—twice in one day, how unusual— "T-thank you."_

The beast locked its yellow eyes on her, growls becoming louder. Its tail swung to the side, smashing water foundation to pieces.

"Come on, come on..." Rachel murmured, still smiling. She wasn't sure if it was the memory or the sheer stupidity of this plan.

The monster roared, claws making long divots in the linoleum, sounds echoing around it.

Rachel turned a little, letting the monster see her move, and waited a beat, enough for the beast to sense her desire to flee.

Sprinting unexpectedly from her spot like a competition runner at the noise of a gun, Rachel tore down an adjacent hallway in a flash and charged straight through a set of doors, running up the stairs with Loric agility, pumping her arms to increase her speed.

Hearing the monster's answering tinny scream and thundering bedlam succeeding it, Rachel picked up the pace.

* * *

"Fuck," Quinn breathed, anxious for Rachel's safety. This idea would get her killed. The blonde ran a hand through her hair.

She listened to the thunderous annilation of McKinley from the inside out, wincing at the monster's chilling howl into the night.

"How much longer?"

"Not long," Six answered, hands extended in front of himself. "But it does take some time, if you would be so kind...be quiet."

"Don't talk to her that way, man," Mike interjected coldly, defending Quinn on his best friend's behalf. "Rachel won't like it."

Mike didn't like Six. Not one bit. Maybe it was the attitude or the irritating familiarity with Rachel about things that Mike didn't understand that irked him. He knew Quinn wasn't pleased either. Six, however, ignored him, brow creasing with concentration. The sky wasn't clear anymore—it was crowding with heavy clouds, thunder booming in the distance. Hopefully, it would work.

Six heard Rachel's footsteps, spry and swift, and intensified his efforts, a sheen of sweat forming on his forehead.

"Look!" Tina exclaimed, pointing at the roof.

The assembled humans and Loric looked up expectantly, sharing expressions of mingled alarm and dismay. Rachel was barely visible, but they all could see a figure running hard from the door, throwing a hurried glance over her shoulder as she went. Rain began to fall in earnest, first as sleet but then it became a downpour, obscuring their view of Rachel. The thunder was closer now, muffling the shriek of the Mogadorian beast.

"Hurry," Quinn urged.

"I am," Six snarled, losing what minimal patience he had with her. Mike glared.

"Fuck off_,_ dude. Rachel needs you to do this now, not later."

"Legacies are mentally consuming," Six barked, blinking fast through the torrential rainfall. "Making a storm of this strength—"

"Fuck you," Quinn snapped. "Rachel will die up there if you don't get your shit together soon. When I said _hurry_, I meant it."

Six glowered at her but acquiesced quickly, hands wobbling a bit. His shoulders shook with exertion, head starting to ache.

The monster's scream pierced the air and there was a flash of bright cobalt in the darkness, hovering in one place—Rachel was using Lumen on the roof, holding back the beast with telekinesis. Thunder boomed and lightning zapped a tree beside McKinley.

"You missed," Mike noted scathingly.

"Fuck off," Six growled.

The bluish light was flickering in and out from what they could see of the roof, showing flashes of an enormous shadow and a much smaller one in front of it. Rachel didn't have much time before her Legacies depleted entirely and she was left defenseless.

"Now!" Quinn yelled.

The rain intensified into a violent monsoon. Trees leaned precariously closer to power lines. Six's hands were starting to burn.

The monster bellowed in anger at Rachel over the storm as she kept him behind a wall of telekinetic energy, control on her power beginning to slip after a prolonged period of use. The beast pushed insistently against the invisible barrier, making Rachel's sneakers squeak and skid backwards, almost knocking her off her feet. Not long now. Not long. Six would save her. He had to.

Finally—it seemed like eons for Rachel, not minutes—with an earth-shattering peal of thunder, another round of rain, and an audible _zap_, lightning descended on the roof of school in a dazzling array of atmospheric electricity. The first and only hit smacked dead-on against the beast's spine, paralyzing it instantly. The force of the blast slammed the beast to its stomach, crushing the aging framework of McKinley's roof and throwing Rachel onto her back and incapacitating her. The roof began to crumble from the epicenter, outermost layers collapsing and breaking apart in mere seconds. The wind howled and rain escalated to a tempest.

The beast's body—Rachel couldn't tell if it was dead or still holding on to life with ghastly, evil determination—was a deadweight, making the roof supports split apart. Unable to utter a single word nor move a muscle nor lift a finger to save herself, Rachel could only lie motionless, face contorted in pain and exhaustion as the infrastructure of the roof caved in at last, pulling both Rachel and the Mogadorian monster earthward into the school gym as metal, timber, and cement joined them in a shower of unending rubble.


	21. Parting

**Title: **Four

**Author: **animatedbrowneyes

**Pairings: **Quinn/Rachel, Santana/Brittany, Tina/Artie, Will/Emma

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Glee_, nor do I own "I Am Number Four".

**Sorry for the wait. This will be the last chapter of 'Four'. Thanks for being patient with me!**

* * *

"Come on, Finn!" Mike yelled.

Rattled, Finn hesitated for just a second before he was sprinting after the forms of Quinn, Six, and Mike, Leroy's bag clutched to his chest. Finn sped up, sneakers slipping and sliding on the hill toward the school, hoping that he wouldn't trip. The gym roof crumbled from within not a moment ago—pulling that monster and Rachel down with it—and Quinn was already running for the razed building, disregarding the warnings of her friends. Finn wouldn't deny his own instinct to run, too. Rachel had saved them all and was probably...no, he couldn't think of it that way.

It was strange to think back to where this all began. Rachel slipping into the current of students but not remaining invisible for long—Quinn's piqued interest in the girl had caused ripples amongst their classmates—and how she became Finn's enemy for such stupid reasons that he could now admit to rationalizing. He only felt shame and chagrin, recalling his sneers and petty insults and staged Halloween jump with Karofsky and Azimio and the other guys on the football team. Rachel had done nothing but adore Quinn and in his jealousy, Finn could not see how happy she made Quinn, more than he ever could or had. He still loved her, yes, very much, but it was _nothing_, nothing but a trifle affection compared to what Rachel's eyes displayed for his ex-girlfriend. It was like Quinn was the sun or something and Rachel was an orbiting, adoring planet, doomed to be entranced by the light until the end of her days. Finn could never achieve that. Quinn wasn't his and never was. Only now had he started to accept that and his actions seemed worse than before. Hopefully, he could apologize for everything he had done to Rachel before it was too late.

Finn reached the rubble and stepped over a pulverized locker in his pursuit of the others. He had to stop, though, at the sight of the gym.

It was a disaster zone. Finn could barely recognize it. Chunks of concrete littered the floor in every direction, dozens upon dozens, twisted pipes sticking out in various places where they had been ripped from their places. Slabs of bricks were scattered as far as the eye could see, hiding the lines designed for basketball. One of the hoops adorned on the walls dangled by a very taut string, the backboard cracked right down the middle.

He picked up on a peculiar noise, almost a prickling of the musty air itself. Was that the electric sockets reacting to the storm above?

Bizzarely, Finn wanted to laugh. Principal Figgins would go crazy once he walked to the school, come Monday morning.

He shook his head, forcing himself to concentrate as his mood returned to solemnity again. Nothing was amusing about this situation.

He registered the actions of Quinn, Six, and Mike. They were sifting desperately through the piles of debris, calling Rachel's name over the crashing of thunder and endless monsoon. Finn slung the backpack over his shoulders in one quick movement and scurried over to help. His palms soon became scratched and marked up with gashes, but he persisted, searching and searching without a word. Rachel needed as much aid as possible.

He noted the arrival of the club and Mr. Schue, but they weren't standing idle and confused; they started to rummage through wreckage too.

The search continued more frantic than before. Finn felt a ripple of discomfort flash up his spine when lifting a wedge of plaster, but persevered.

Finn lowered the segment of stone to the floor and flung several bricks aside, but his investigation was not in vain this time. A foot was exposed.

"Here!" He bellowed as loud as he could. There was a scramble and everyone was running to him now, waterlogged and covered in slimy dust.

Puck was the first one to reach him and the two rushed into action, lifting pieces of rubble with upmost care, the process more delicate than before. Mike and Quinn and Six were closest to the working football players, searching harder and faster than anyone else, fingers bloodied and blemished. Six didn't dare use his Legacies, too tired to try. The others converged behind them, making room for Finn and Puck to deposit debris.

A pair of legs appeared. Then a waist. A torso. Shoulders. A neck. Finally, at long last, Rachel was completely uncovered.

Finn felt a hiss slip through his teeth at the revealed image as a gasp escaped Quinn's mouth. Rachel's body was ceaselessly pockmarked with lacerations. Bruises colored her skin in black and blue patches. Blood was congregated on her stomach, staining her shirt in a crimson smudge.

Six maneuvered past Quinn and Mike and lowered his ear near an unconscious Rachel's lips, listening as he rested a finger near her throat.

"There's a pulse," he breathed out, earning a collective sigh of relief. "Where's the Chest?"

"Finn has it," Mike answered. Finn surrendered the bag without waiting to be asked, and Mike rifled through it quickly, retrieving the box.

Six looked grim as he accepted the Chest from Mike, studying the lock with resignation.

"What is it?" Quinn asked from her position beside Rachel, clasping one of her girlfriend's hands in her own, desperation prominent.

"Only the Loric that it was created for can open it and the Cêpan, working together as one. Since he's dead, only Rachel can do it from now on," Six explained quietly. "I need to wake her up to access the tool that will heal her."

"She's too hurt, and there isn't time," Mike urged amongst agreement from the club. "Someone has to be coming for us and we'll be caught."

"We can't wait to do it," Six snapped back, green eyes burning with rage. "She'll die."

Elphaba growled.

Mike looked disapproving but said nothing more. He had no counterargument. Six returned his attention to Rachel, being as gentle as he could. At first, there was no response. Rachel didn't move nor make a noise of recognition, and her time was ticking. Finn watched Six look more panicked.

"Four, come on," he murmured a few times, unnerved. Thunder boomed loudly over the destroyed building and small group, but it was ignored.

"Rachel, wake up," Quinn pleaded, voice cracking. "Wake up, please. For me, come back..."

* * *

She was dreaming. She had to be.

No, it wasn't a dream...it was a memory of One's. Isaac, the Number that died in Malaysia.

His feet barely touched the ground as he fled the Mogadorians, but his flight through the Bornean forest was useless. Through his eyes, she was him as he chanced a glance backwards, watching Mogadorians swarm on the place he called home with his Cépan, Silas. Fear radiated like a tornado in One's heart and utter despair nearly overpowered him. Rachel listened to his thoughts. He repeatedly cursed his own ignorance, as if regret could save him. It could not, she knew. He was stabbed through the gut within a minute, all because he could not focus on his escape.

The memory vanished into the recesses of Rachel's mind, Mogadorian laughter fading into nothingness.

Perhaps that had been their trouble all along. Loyalty. All Cépans on Earth had sacrificed themselves and still, three Numbers were dead.

The same happened to hers. And such a thing could happen to the delicate humans that remained in her trust, if she continued to stay in Lima.

Although, she _did_ know that already.

Somewhere in her musings, Rachel felt a headache coming on. The ache increased exponentially. She felt as if her skull was tearing itself in half.

There was a fluttering in front of her face, almost like a camera flash. Quinn's voice reached her ears, sounding broken, and a brief second of a downpour was recognized on her skin, the rain as cold as ice. Six's gaze on her, too, was the one thing she managed to see but after that, she could only comprehend agony and absolutely nothing else. It began at the fingertips of her right hand, crawling up her arm like some terrible insect with pincers like needles, pricking her flesh with blades of hot steel. The pain expanded without warning, slinking from her shoulders to her neck, undulating more rapidly than she could adjust to. She was sure she would go blind and deaf and dumb if she wasn't already unconscious.

She could not get away from it. Paralyzed and unaware of her surroundings, Rachel was trapped in a fog, accompanied only by a smarting ache.

What caused it?

She struggled to remember something. What was she doing prior to blacking out? Something important, because why else would she be so hurt?

_Four?_

Rachel ceased her attempts to recall what caused her pain, because it was ebbing away. Slowly, it lessened until her only lament was this oblivion.

Whose voice was that?

_Four, wake up._

Hmm, someone familiar. Someone who knew her Loric identity. Someone who seemed to be able to speak to her in this blackness—Elphaba!

Memories slammed into her head, the images blurring together in a mess of moments. Leroy's corpse on the floor, disintegrating into a pile of sand and the sting of tears in her eyes, watching her companion of ten years die from a sword wound to the chest. The roof collapsing and the descent into McKinley's gym. The floor when she was on fire. The Mogadorian beast, screaming on the roof. The swing of a punch that sent a Mogadorian soaring into a wall. Closing her fingers into a fist, power radiating from her knuckles, making her opponents choke to death and actually liking it.

That must be it. The battle on the school roof had knocked her out and the falling rubble had to be the source of the damage to her body.

Oh, how much that had hurt...

She concentrated on the voice. Elphaba. Minutes before her blacking out, Rachel realized her last Legacy, at long last—animal telepathy.

But how to reach out and reply? She couldn't speak or move or end this unconsciousness. She didn't even know where she was. Or her friends.

_I'm right here, Rachel._

_Elphaba? _She tried, and sensed something tangibly akin to agreement. _Where am I?_

_Somewhere safe, _Elphaba answered. _Everyone's waiting for you to wake up._

_Is Quinn okay?_

_She is. But she's very worried about you. It's been three days since the accident and you haven't moved a muscle._

_Three days? Where are we?_

_Mike's cousin's house. They're away on vacation but he found the hide-a-key. Six is here as well. He paces for hours at a time._

Rachel paused, absorbing this news. Three days of a coma and everyone was holed up a long way from Lima, it seemed. Well, she couldn't go back there now. Here had to be her farewell to her teammates and her girlfriend. Maybe Mike too if he wasn't feeling stubborn. It was too dangerous. Following Six was her only option to protect everyone. She had to find the other Numbers, like Leroy said to do. Her human friends weren't durable enough for that. They weren't durable enough for this war. It wasn't theirs to get involved in and Rachel had to shut them out eventually.

Goodbyes were a long time coming but would be hard. Especially to Quinn. Leaving someone so special behind made Rachel want to cry.

Elphaba spoke again after a minute.

_Six says you won't have to leave just yet. Regardless of your recovery, he knows the Mogadorians won't contact each other for awhile._

_How can I wake up?_ Rachel asked. _I want to see Quinn._

_I can't bring you out of this. It's out of my power. An emergence from this sleep is up to you._

Left alone again as Elphaba's presence slunk further away until it was gone completely, Rachel returned her attention on feeling her limbs. She could feel all her fingers and toes but hadn't thought to rouse them in fear of prompting more horrible pain. No longer in such awful torture, she tried moving the digits of her left hand and to her enormous relief, felt the joints obeying. She tried her feet and managed to make her toes wiggle a little before stopping. Emboldened with her progress, she switched agendas. Now that she could move, she wanted to know where she was.

Rachel moved her hand, perceiving fabric under her fingertips. No, not fabric, more of a flatter kind, thinner...a sheet, she realized. A bed sheet.

Progress was slow but after some time, she discerned a blanket wrapped around her and a heartbeat near her spine, thrumming steadily.

Rachel wondered who it belonged to.

When she felt the lightest of touches along her arm, as if hesitant to be doing so, she knew it was Quinn. No one else would be so gentle.

Opening her eyes was a struggle on its own and took a lot of effort, but Rachel persisted until she could distinguish a shadowy room and the bed below her rather than the deep, unfathomable blackness of her mind. She blinked several times, more than happy to have her sight restored.

Quinn seemed to know she was awake. The arm draped on her hip pulled her closer across the bed as she felt and heard a whisper near her ear.

"Rachel?"

A sob escaped her before she knew why and suddenly, tears were distorting her vision and she was shaking uncontrollably. Quinn only moved closer, murmuring soothing words. Rachel cried for many reasons, having since held everything in for a long time. For losing Leroy. For Quinn and Mike, because she would be leaving them within a week or so. For her fellow Numbers and their unjust ends. For her Loric brethren, slaughtered and their precious culture dwindled to almost nothing. And for herself, for receiving such a rotten lot in life and being stuck with the consequences.

"Sorry," she mumbled when she'd calmed down a bit. Exhausted, she rolled over until she was facing Quinn. Hazel eyes studied her carefully.

"I think you've earned it."

Rachel nodded.

"You scared me for a minute there," Quinn admitted quietly when they had just been looking at each other. "I thought the fall killed you."

Rachel didn't comment on the immobilizing relief in Quinn's eyes, the terror of Rachel's supposed death still present.

"Can't get rid of me that easily," the brunette joked feebly, disregarding the obvious lucky scrape she had. Quinn laughed.

"I guess not."

"How's everyone doing?" Rachel inquired, twirling a strand of Quinn's hair around her finger that was splayed on the pillow they shared.

"Fine," Quinn replied with a sigh, looking like she hadn't slept in days. "Asking a lot of questions and Mike's stuck handling them all."

"I owe him a lot," Rachel mused. Mike Chang had truly become her most loyal friend if Quinn wasn't considered.

"No more than he owes you," Quinn countered. "You gave him the friend he needed and a push out of his shell."

"That's not much."

"Not to you."

Rachel left it at that, not challenging her on it, and was silent for a moment.

"You have to know that—"

"You'll be leaving?" The blonde prompted, looking so sad that Rachel could've sworn something snapped inside. "Yeah, I figured as much."

"I don't want you to get hurt," Rachel explained unhappily, willing Quinn to understand. "Otherwise, I would stay as long as you wanted me to."

"When do you think it'll be over?" Quinn asked after a beat, toying with a string of the sheet, avoiding her gaze.

Rachel shook her head.

"I don't know. They outnumber us ten-to-one. Maybe more. I don't have a clue on how we'll protect everyone. Six versus thousands? Impossible."

"Won't your Legacies help you?" Quinn queried.

"Not much," Rachel sighed. "I can't use them too often; they drain energy if I keep using them so much."

"Oh."

"What time is it?" Rachel wondered when they were quiet again, lying down in companionable silence.

"Three thirty, I think. Everyone's downstairs...we might as well go and show them you're okay."

Resigned, Rachel agreed.

* * *

Mike yanked her into a hug as soon as her feet had left the bottom step and she returned it as closely as she could, distracted by both the obvious fatigue under Mike's eyes and the form of Six in the background, watching her out of the corner of his eye. The glee club and Mr. Schuester were littered all over this living room, looking sleepy and concerned but relieved at her well being. How they fled Lima without being spotted was a mystery, but Rachel supposed that she would find out eventually. She found a seat beside Puck as Six meandered toward the middle of the room.

"I've been looking for traces of the others while you were out," he began, letting a globe of glass levitate from his open palm. All occupants within the room watched the globe darken a bit, filling the core with shades of green and blue as it hovered, until it resembled a model Earth.

Rachel studied the floating sphere, dimly wondering if Leroy had owned one. Probably. Locked away in the Chest but not for her eyes yet.

_Now I can see it all I like_, Rachel thought. Pushing her bitterness away, she focused on Six's words.

"Before I found you, I searched for anyone all over the place, ever since my Cêpan was killed. I managed to find little clues here and there, forgotten trinkets that I could sense belonged to the other Numbers. They didn't leave anything but did allow me to follow their paths," Six went on, pointing to a light trail winding across the glass surface. More lines appeared in various colors, crisscrossing over the 'world', demonstrating the wanderings of her kind. "But I could never catch up to them in time. They had left already and I was forced to square one again and again."

"Until Rachel," Mike interjected, fixating on the globe while the assembled humans watched it rotate in fascination. Six nodded.

"You were the exception," the boy noted, sounding amused. "Happening upon you was the easiest breakthrough I'd ever gotten."

"Figures," Rachel grumbled, petulant. Quinn's lips twitched.

"Anyway," Six continued, directing the globe with a flick of his finger to float to a delighted Brittany's outstretched hands as he retrieved a map from his backpack and unrolled it, spreading it across the coffee table, "we need to locate the other four Numbers and organize a strategy."

"There's a list of where some of them are," Rachel volunteered, recalling the scribbles she kept from the Westerville incident. "Seven was trailed in Spain...and Nine was on the run in South America on the last report. I've been seeing flashes of what Seven sees every one and awhile, too."

Six looked up from his map, eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "But that doesn't make sense. Our memories come from the dead Numbers only, sharing their experiences through our connection to Lorien's magic."

"I know. But maybe Seven's trying to get a message out," Rachel elaborated. "I'm the one under fire. Maybe he or she wants me to find them."

"Have you seen their Cêpan? Are they on the run?"

"I don't know."

"They should be your first goal," Quinn recommended suddenly, drawing attention from everyone else in the room. "It's your best lead so far."

"Is there a way to find the others?" Mr. Schuester spoke up for the first time. "Like...with your powers?"

Rachel hid her astonishment only by redirecting her gaze to Six. She was more than aware that her collection of human acquaintances had been thrust into this secret without having time to think about it or the chance to escape it, but seeing them with inquisitive looks on their faces but no trace of deceit was unendingly comforting. They wouldn't tell anyone. They'd keep her abilities and heritage under wraps, that much she could tell.

"Not that we know of yet," Rachel answered when Six didn't.

"Spain it is," Six conceded, making a decisive _X_ on his map. Rachel nodded.

"When are we leaving?" He asked. "There won't be a contact between each Mogadorian unit for at least another week."

There was a heavy, oppressive silence, one where eyes seemed to fix on Rachel and Quinn, sitting side by side on the couch and not looking at each other. Even Six was watching, as if deliberating whether or not he should prompt her again. Quinn looked sad but was silent as Rachel bit her lip, hands clasped in her lap. This was it—the real confirmation of her parting, the deadline looming overhead that would just make time quicken. Sure, she knew she would have to leave at some point, but that was with Leroy and under his guidance. Now that he was gone, it was up to her.

Her time in Lima felt like minutes rather than months, the longer she sat on that couch, contemplating the day she would need to walk away from it. How could she leave it all behind? She had a girlfriend, friends, a competition to worry about, homework to do...everything normal that she had been denied for ten stressful years. Lima was everything she wanted most—being normal. Being a human and adopting ignorance.

A funny voice in her head sounding a lot like Mike reminded her that this choice wasn't easy (followed by some slogan from a comic book) but necessary. She could not bury her head in the sand and avoid the war of her species. Her fellows were in trouble and being hunted and just because she was in safety at the moment did not mean she could abandon them. There were six Numbers left in the universe and however many Cêpans had survived. The future of Lorien's culture was on their shoulders and staying in Lima, no matter how tempting it was, was not an option.

More Mogadorians would come. She knew that much. This town was not a stronghold and her presence would just bring more danger to it.

"A few more days," she replied at last. "So I can say my goodbyes."

"All right," Six remarked when no one spoke, rolling up his map. "We'll start training in the meantime."

* * *

Mike ordered several pizzas for the group's dinner and mentioned a mall nearby for shopping, to everyone's relief. Fortunately, he and Quinn had the foresight to insist on the retrieval of Rachel's supplies from her home with Leroy before they had fled Lima (documents, identifications, money, etc.) so she and Six had full clearance to leave when they were ready, already equipped with both of their clothes, Chests, and Loric weaponry.

Rachel and Quinn occupied the bedroom she had woken up in earlier. Quinn's arms around Rachel seemed tighter than before, but neither minded.

Six knocked on the door the following morning and once dressed in sweats, Rachel went outside into the backyard as he had requested.

Everyone else sat on lawn chairs to watch the spectacle, eating their breakfast. Disregarding her own hunger, Rachel faced Six.

"Let's work on our telekinesis," he announced with a gesture to their audience. "And here are our practice dummies."

"What?" Mercedes yelped. Six rolled his eyes.

"Not _you_."

Bundled up in old knee pads, elbow pads, and bicycle helmets, Mike and Quinn trotted out into the yard, trying desperately not to laugh.

Rachel cracked a grin.

"You have more practice than I do, Four," Six admitted, finally acknowledging a weakness. "So you'll have to teach me."

"Great," Rachel smiled.

Their first day of training was spent entirely on improving his ability. The yard was secluded by woods, so they were not seen.

Elphaba Brice loped around excitedly, riled up into action, until she was restrained and distracted by Brittany, Artie, and Matt with a tennis ball.

Because Six relied so much on his swordplay, elemental manipulation, and invisibility, he had let his telekinesis slide a little. Rachel instructed him on different ways to swing his arms or his hands, levitating Mike into the air to hang like a puppet as a demonstration. Weight and size were big factors to the amount of power behind his movements, so he would need to judge on how much he would require every time he was confronted.

Six tried hard but made a lot of progress. Rachel was pleased.

Day Two was dedicated to Rachel's grown of skills in hand to hand combat. _Sloppy_, Six said with a frown. _You need to be quicker, faster, better._

She went to sleep aching and exhausted long after the sun had set, sore from bruises and scrapes. Leroy's training seemed lax compared to this.

"Swing like this," Six advised on the third day, brandishing Leroy's old sword and handing it back. "You'll be swifter on your feet."

The Lorics sparred and brawled for an immeasurable amount of time on their fourth day of training, both evenly matched in strength and speed, until forced to concede it as a tie, unable to defeat each other with weapons, Legacies, or fighting. Rachel felt more energized after every session, appreciating the work that she was doing. It made her feel strong. She wasn't invincible but was a formidable enemy. _Pity the Mogadorians that find you two_, Mike had declared at the top of his voice, earning agreeable cheers and grins. It was true. She and Six were impressive warriors.

Rachel did feel powerful but was sad in equal degree as practice days wore on and on, due to the time of her departure nearing. It was a noticeable effect amongst her friends as they wrangled incessantly with their parents on their phones, delaying their returns to Lima. How they managed it puzzled Rachel but she didn't bother asking. They stayed for her and that was all she cared about. Even Finn argued with his mother about it.

Surprising her further was his apology, expression sincere to boot.

"Um...I hope you can forgive me, Rachel," he mumbled, scuffing his sneaker on the grass. "I really am sorry for being a dick."

"Thank you," she replied, peering up at him curiously, wondering what brought this on. He had already proved himself when he helped her and Leroy get into McKinley and kept the club safe from harm. "Maybe we can, uh...be friends?"

They eyed each other before breaking into identical, sheepish grins.

"Nah," Finn chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck with only a little awkwardness. "How's teammates?"

"Teammates," Rachel agreed, eyes twinkling.

"You'll come back, won't you?" Finn asked after a minute, sidling a glance at her as she stretched, readying for a session with Six. "Back to Lima?"

"I don't know," she answered guiltily. "I hope so, but I'm not too sure."

"She really loves you," Finn persisted, under his breath with a wary look at the chatting group ahead. "I think you should tell her this, too."

"I don't want to hurt her, Finn," Rachel sighed. "Getting her hopes up and all...I don't want to keep her waiting. That's not fair."

"You know she'll wait. That's just who she is."

"I know. That's what I'm afraid of."

* * *

Finally, it was the night before Rachel and Six would depart.

The spirit of the group noticeably dimmed and it lingered like a storm cloud, darkening their moods in turn. Rachel caught herself checking her watch as the afternoon faded quickly into evening, all too aware of how much time was left. She and Six would leave early in the morning while everyone was asleep, so farewells would occur before bedtime. Brittany hugged her frequently but said nothing, too sad to verbalize her thoughts, Artie and Matt sought her out for a fist-bump, Mr. Schue smiled awkwardly but was honest in his words of good luck, Santana slung an arm over her shoulder and squeezed a bit, Mercedes and Kurt mumbled thank-you's, Tina beamed and insisted she return as soon as possible, Puck smiled without a smirk and hugged her, and Finn gave her a little salute and a lift of his lips. Mike, surprisingly, didn't say much and seemed distracted.

Rachel changed into pajamas and joined Quinn under the covers of their bed, more than happy to receive and prolong the blonde's welcoming kiss. They hadn't done that for awhile, Rachel realized. She had been more focused on her training with Six than spending time with her girlfriend.

"Are you nervous?" Quinn asked.

"Yeah," Rachel replied. "It's the first time I'm venturing off into the unknown without Leroy and without a set place in mind."

"But now you have Six and Elphaba," Quinn pointed out. "You aren't alone."

"True."

"I'll miss you," Quinn murmured. Rachel looked at her in concern, feeling an ache begin in her heart. This would be the hardest goodbye of them all. That she knew for certain. How could she part with her soulmate and not cry buckets over it? Besides _that_, she didn't even know if she could make it back. The war between the Lorics and Mogadorians had a very likely ending to it and it was not favorable to Earth in any way. Coming back to Quinn would be difficult if not impossible and Rachel didn't know how to break that to Quinn without incurring her girlfriend's frustration.

"I'll miss you too," Rachel told her, unable to hide the sadness in her tone. "But I'll write to you."

"Write to me?" Quinn repeated, amused.

"That's the least trackable way," Rachel explained. "The Mogadorians monitor things electronically, so a simple letter won't be recognizable."

"How romantic," Quinn teased. Rachel grinned.

"I'll send you postcards from wherever we go," she promised. Quinn's eyes lit up.

"Like Paris?"

Remembering that brief, absurd moment of believing she could escape this war during lunch with Mike the other day, Rachel nodded.

"Take my camera," Quinn proposed brightly. "There's one in my purse. Take as many pictures as you can and develop them when you get back."

"I will," Rachel vowed, feeling somehow worse than before. The threat of failure still lingered and succeeding was doubtful, almost a miracle.

Quinn, ever observant, caught the downturn of Rachel's mood and pulled her into a kiss, tracing a thumb along Rachel's cheek.

"I don't want you to leave me, though," Quinn admitted ruefully as she drew away. "It'll be really weird not seeing you all the time."

"I don't want to leave," Rachel murmured. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah...all superheroes have to save the day...you're no different," Quinn laughed, but it was troubled and weak. "I should stop listening to Mike."

"I wish I could stay," Rachel whispered, voice hoarse. "We could go to college together, move in...leave Lima and travel the world..."

"We will," Quinn whispered back, eyes shining with tears in the darkness. "We'll go everywhere and anywhere, okay?"

"Okay."

Quinn kissed her then, like the world was ending and they had only a short amount of time left to live. It was sort of like that, Rachel supposed. They only had a night left to live as they had since September. All these months of being together would end tomorrow, concluding a term of something Rachel had never had before. This 'world' of safety and seclusion from her problems could not last and this kiss was a reminder of that, a relic or keepsake of her life in Ohio. It was a sad thing but not entirely despondent. She could return and would try as hard as she could to do so. She kissed back, harder this time when as their lips met again after a moment of sharing harsh breaths, hoping to somehow convey that to Quinn.

She leaned back a fraction when Quinn's fingers pulled at her shirt, searching the blonde's face for her thoughts.

However, Quinn spoke first.

"I want this," she said, words making Rachel's limbs feel like they'd turned into jelly. "I want you, before you have to leave."

"I've never—" Rachel blurted out nervously. "I've never, um, done...that and I don't know how to, uh...?"

"I've only done it once and that got me pregnant," Quinn countered with a grin, and Rachel burst out laughing, anxiety dissipating a bit.

Quinn cradled Rachel's face with her hands, smiling, but eyes still dark and wild and excited. "I want _you,_ Rachel. That's enough for me."

"Okay," Rachel breathed.

* * *

The buzzing of her watch was like a slap in the face in the morning and Rachel stirred irritably, turning off the alarm as she sat up, holding the sheet up to her body. Quinn was still sleeping when she rose to get dressed, collecting her clothes into a backpack and closing the zipper. She felt tired and would dislike that on the road, but she wouldn't take back last night for anything. It was way too cruel to leave without another goodbye from Quinn, so Rachel meandered to the bed and kissed her awake, delighting in the pleased groan that Quinn let out when Rachel drew back.

"Almost time to go," she whispered, and Quinn took the hint, pulling on what clothes she could find and dragging a brush through her hair.

"Hey, look, a hickey," she snickered, studying her neck in the mirror with a smirk. Rachel blushed.

They went downstairs, hands linked, and walked outside to the driveway, where Leroy's truck, Elphaba, and Six, sitting on a motorcycle, waited.

Rachel turned her back on them and pulled Quinn into a kiss, not wanting to let go just yet. When Six made a show of clearing his throat, she stepped back an inch, exchanging an eye roll with Quinn.

"I can't call until we're out of town," Rachel informed her. "Pay phones are harder to trace but I can do that every once and awhile."

"I'll be waiting."

Rachel nodded, wavering a bit, but Quinn smiled without sadness and squeezed her hand, motioning for her to go.

"Hey!" A voice shouted before she could take a step. "Hold up, Rach!"

She turned around, eyebrows knitting together in confusion as Mike and Finn trotted out from the house. Her best friend got to her first.

"Don't leave without me," he panted, bag dropping to the ground as he rested his hands on his knees. "I have to go too."

"What?" Rachel demanded. "You're staying here, Mike."

"I am not," Mike insisted stubbornly, straightening up. "This adventure has more than enough room for the Changster."

Six snorted.

"You'll get hurt," Rachel warned.

"So? I even called my mom and concocted this big lie about earning a GED at different school. Anyway, she bought it! So, where am I sitting?"

"Fine," Rachel growled. Six coughed.

"If you slow us down, Twinkletoes," he called haughtily from his motorcycle, adjusting his sunglasses to scowl at Mike, "I'll kill you myself."

Mike rolled his eyes, scooped up his backpack, and stomped to Leroy's truck, sitting in the cab beside Elphaba. Quinn and Finn looked amused.

"I should go," Rachel sighed after a beat, wistful.

"Keep us posted on where you go," Quinn requested as Finn nodded. "If you can."

"Okay," Rachel replied, taking a step back. The moment stretched, as if the connection between them was severing and tautening, but Rachel gave Quinn one more look and turned around, and the bond splintered and broke—she was really leaving. Finn wrapped an arm around Quinn's waist without intent and she leaned into his shoulder, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. Rachel climbed into Leroy's truck and started the engine.

"She'll be back, won't she?" The blonde asked, as the motorcycle zoomed off to the road, the truck trailing behind in its wake.

"Totally," Finn answered with a comforting squeeze of her shoulders. "Come on, I'll make us some pancakes."

Rachel watched them in the rearview mirror, but she didn't feel sad.

Earlier, she had wondered if running from the Mogadorians and losing Leroy would've been easier if she had not come to Lima in the first place and not made these friends, nor met Quinn. She wondered if her life would've been less hard to leave, if things wouldn't feel so final and difficult to let go of. But as Six led her to an open highway and Mike flicked a page of the comic book in his hands, presence more welcome than she realized, she knew that was no better. She wanted to remember the good times in Ohio. She wanted to have loved and lost instead of never loving at all. Having memories to cherish—especially if she did not survive this war—was ideal, rather than leaving with Six and having no one to come back to.

She would come back. This wasn't an end to something. It was a new beginning, a fresh start. A new chapter, ready to be explored.

"Spain, here we come," Mike murmured under his breath as Elphaba barked, and Rachel grinned.

* * *

"Schuester!" Figgins called, beckoning the Spanish teacher and his students over from their seats to the podium.

The glee club and Mr. Schuester had discreetly slipped back into town after Rachel had left and compiled their alibis, hoping that the police force wouldn't question them on what had happened to McKinley or about their absence of almost eight days. The school was wrecked and looked a lot worse in the daylight, and Figgins was predictably apoplectic when he saw it. It was a miracle on its own that no one had approached the building when it was actually being pummeled from the inside out by the battle within, but they guessed that the storm and thunder concealed most of the racket the Mogadorians and their monster had created.

Because the school was half-destroyed, classes had been canceled until further notice. The town was crammed into a meeting organized by the mayor himself.

Unfortunately, the blame was placed on Leroy and Rachel, for lack of suspects and the evidence stacked against them, time and time again. Quinn patiently ignored the stares of her family as this news was revealed. Her girlfriend was being made into a scapegoat but she didn't care—she and the others knew the truth. A warrant was fashioned for their arrest (Mr. Karofsky was beside himself with delight) and the mayor moved on to the next order of business.

By a grand stroke of luck, McKinley would not need a rise in taxes to be rebuilt. A donation from an anonymous benefactor solved that problem.

"The donation has a specific request," Figgins announced into the microphone, expression irritable. "They wrote, as follows, that the McKinley High glee club must remain in action, to spread joy and continue to be as open and welcoming as it has always been to students new and old alike."

Quinn exchanged looks of disbelief and elation with her friends, staring at the letter in Figgins' hands. Rachel's abrupt departure had disqualified them from Regionals and disbanded them as a group for good this time, but they still gathered together often, more out of habit than anything.

"Did they say anything else?" Mr. Schuester asked curiously.

"Only a piece of paper, addressed to you all," the principal answered, tossing it to Mr. Schue and dismissing him and his students with a wave.

They wandered outside and huddled close to listen as Mr. Schuester began to read it aloud.

"'Make sure you find a suitable replacement for me. Someone with a good voice. I'd hate for New Directions to embarrass themselves at Sectionals in the fall. I'll be in touch'," Mr. Schue recited, as grins materialized in recognition. He held up the paper for all to see, pointing to the signature line. Instead of the curvy, almost scrawled handwriting they were expecting, it was a strange symbol of overlapping broad circles—Rachel's Loric name.

"Classy," Santana snorted.

"Let's go practice, then," Mr. Schuester decided, earning cheers. "We can't get sloppy and disappoint our anonymous sponsor, can we?"

"You guys go, I'll catch up," Puck remarked, waving them off, and waited until he was alone before raising his phone to his ear with a smirk.

"Nice one, Rach."

"I thought so," was the amused reply. "I am a lot richer than most countries in the world put together."

"Ever gonna send some of that down Puckzilla's alley?"

"Maybe for a Christmas gift."

"I'm Jewish," he protested indignantly. "And I thought _you_ were too, for a long time."

"I'll be an honorary Jew," she teased. Puck laughed.

"Come back soon, you hear?" He requested, walking a ways down the sidewalk.

"I will. Keep an eye on Quinn for me, will you?"

"No problem. I'll guard her from Finn with a baseball bat if I have to."

"Something tells me that won't be necessary," Rachel mused, thinking of Finn's honesty, "but thank you."

"Gotcha. Well, send us one of those postcards, Berry. I know I want one."

"Will do, Noah."

Puck hung up and turned to follow the figures of his friends, whistling tunelessly under his breath.

* * *

Rachel stowed her phone on the seat and slid on a pair of sunglasses, eyes fixed on the horizon and Six on his motorcycle.

Lima would wait for her and for the first time in her life, she had a place to return to.

* * *

**Thanks for reading this! I will do a sequel but I have no idea when that will be. Anyway, thanks again for sticking around so long!**


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